











Class_ Tin _ 

Book . 5 LH15. 

Copyright«°____ 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 









GEORGE HOYT SMITH 











GRAY GULL 
FEATHERS 


By 

GEORGE HOYT SMITH 



COLUMBIA, S. C. 
THE STATE COMPANY 
1924 






COPYRIGHT, 1924 
BY GEORGE HOYT SMITH 



JUL -9 *24 

©CU79300Z 


W* /[/ 


CONTENTS 


Page 

Gray Gull Feathers. 5 

A Gate in the High Wall.36 

When Elmville Backslid.59 

Traumerei.- - - 79 

Trailing Arbutus 


93 







GRAY GULL FEATHERS 


“The Captain,” they called him at Gilreath’s, 
where I usually stopped somewhere about 1:30 
for my first meal of the day. You see I was 
one of the night workers so often told about 
but not much seen—a newspaper man with hours 
that reversed the usual schedules and my break¬ 
fast and lunch were taken together, and most 
always at Gilreath’s restaurant—a place well 
known for its excellent food and reasonable 
prices in Jacksonville—and the Captain was 
well-named, I thought, because he had a nauti¬ 
cal roll as well as other kinds during service 
behind the counter where the hurry-ups and 
keep-your-hats-on liked to sit on high stools 
and order roast beef and potatoes and pie. 
Fatty wouldn’t have been a bad name for the 
new man, however, for he was a close fit be¬ 
hind the counter, and his round face and good- 
natured smile assured one of a sympathetic 
choice in viands if the stewards and cooks would 
let him pick. The Captain was handy, despite 
his weight, and polite, attentive and interested. 
I understood from the manager that he had 


6 


Gray Gull Feathers 


been engaged for the rush that was on with the 
races. Jacksonville was full of people to the 
rim during the racing meets of the early “teens 
of the 19 hundreds,” and every restaurant en¬ 
gaged additional help and glad to get it. When 
the races were over the big, fat fellow, with 
the weatherbeaten face and a suggestion of the 
sea in his blue eyes, was kept on. A lot of the 
extra help followed the ponies, to Pimlico or 
Montreal or where. In the rush days I hadn’t 
noticed the Captain very particularly, but one 
day when he brought my soup and laid knife 
and fork and spoon alongside and busied him¬ 
self with something near-by I was attracted to 
give him a look over by what seemed to have 
been an involuntary sigh. 

As I turned he recovered his usual smile and 
seemed as though anxious to appear happy and 
interested in his work- It was then that I 
began to wonder in a half-conscious way, “what 
about him.” There was something more than 
a look for a stray dime or nickel—the lunch 
counter tip—in his face. Covertly I studied 
him: An Englishman, not of the Cockney type; 
good features; too fat, admittedly, and the marks 
of a careless, although not necessarily care-free, 


Gray Gull Feathers 


7 


life plainly visible. When he had sighed there 
was a look on his face that was indescribable. 
Apprehensive and helpless. Not the set expres¬ 
sion of the haunted; but a shadow that for an 
instant suggested blotted out hope, and then was 
gone. 

“Been in this country long?” I ventured one 
day as the Captain brought me the mustard and 
looked on with apparent approval as I liberally 
seasoned my roast beef. 

“Several years, yes; Doctor,” he answered. 
“Several consecutive years—excusing a cruise 
or two along the coast. Came to Jacksonville 
last fall and stopped ashore.” 

No reason on earth had he for calling me 
Doctor other than the possible notion that such 
a title would please me. He may or may not 
have known, from the other waiters, that I 
worked at a desk in the newspaper office nearby 
—but I let it go at that and thought to ask an¬ 
other question. It was not to be, for his at¬ 
tention was demanded elsewhere, and when I 
picked up my check a little later the Captain 
was supplying fried trout, watermelon and 
lemon pie to three South Florida visitors in 


8 


Gray Gull Feathers 


town for the day and chatting with them quite 
cheerfully. 

******* 

It was Saturday, I remember, when I asked 
the Captain the first personal question—and 
when leaving the office a little before midnight 
somehow it came back to me—that haunted 
look on the waiter’s face and the sigh that es¬ 
caped him, evidently to his discomfiture. I had 
not gone far, in fact was crossing Hemming 
Park, w r hen someone greeted me from a bench 
near the monument. 

“How are you, Doctor,” said the man in the 
shadow—the voice I recognized as the Captain’s 
—“Beautiful night, isn’t it?” 

“Fine!” I said, answering both questions with 
one word. Then, remarking the long hours of 
restaurant waiters, I expressed wonder that he 
was not asleep at that hour. 

“I can’t sleep, Doctor,” he said; and that look 
I had caught in the restaurant flashed by. “No 
use; I can’t sleep,” he repeated, now almost in 
a whisper. “Might just as well come out and 
sit in the moonlight.” 

He seemed surprised when I sat down on the 
bench, and first declined and then accepted a 


Gray Gull Feathers 


9 


cigar I offered. He was not the quick lunch 
hustler here and it took a minute for him to 
understand that I was not giving him a tip. 

“Did you ever hear voices,” he began, almost 
as soon as the cigar was lit. He was looking 
at the match that had gone out and was almost 
as one talking to himself or in his sleep. 
“Voices,” he added, “not to you—but about you?” 

“No,” I said; “not that I recall. But may¬ 
be it’s the heat or overwork.” 

“Not that, Doctor. O, I’ve tried all kinds 
of things to make me sleep; but it’s no use.” 
He was looking thousands of miles away and 
again whispered: “I hear their voices! They’ve 
found me again and give me no peace!” 

I looked sharply at the Captain as he sat in 
full light of the moon; looked to see if he could 
be dreaming; or under the influence of liquor 
or drugs—but his eyes, serious, and his attitude, 
as if listening, denied my suspicions. 

“Captain,” I said; “you talk queerly.” Some¬ 
how his glance gave me the idea that would 
come if a person was drowning and a rope was 
held just out of reach. He wanted help, or sym¬ 
pathy, or something. I thought to go on towards 
my room; and then changed my mind. 


10 


Gray Gull Feathers 


“What is it all about, Captain?” I said, finally, 
and he could tell that I was interested. “It’s 
just a friendly interest and not curiosity; I 
really would like to know what it is you refer 
to—the voices and all that.” 

He moved a little on the bench and shook his 
head. I could see that he was trying to decide 
whether to talk further or not. His cigar was 
out and as I struck a match for him to relight 

the reserve was burned away. 

* * ^ * * * * 

“Not much of a story, Doctor—not anything 
that sounds right or reasonable,” he said, after 
a pause that lasted while a sergeant of police 
rode down the street between us and the Hotel 
Windsor, now showing but few lights and lit¬ 
tle signs of life. “Some parts of it sound like 
a book yarn; I wish I could forget it—but I can¬ 
not. You see I was one of those younger sons 
—the clergy or the army for me—and neither to 
my taste. What was the use of my stick¬ 
ing around in England? My father was 
—well, that’s nothing now, and anything I 
might have been—is in the past. ***** j 
got away, a lad—and had all kinds of luck. 


Gray Gull Feathers 


11 


“Sometimes I made good at one thing or an¬ 
other; then went the pace that leaves you pant¬ 
ing and wondering if it was worth while. The 
governor had done his best for me before I 
sailed on my own route and with a fair education 
and good constitution I wasn’t often hungry. 

“The sea called me first and for years I was 
with one of those steamship lines that carry 
great cargoes from the Arctic to the equator 
and back again; tramps, they call them, for they 
go and come without special routes or schedules 
and seldom make a port the second time in a 
dozen years. 

“You ask how was I working? Why, as a 
common sailor at first—deck hand, then galley 
boy and assistant and afterwards as steward— 
and it was while steward of the Lord Biltmore, 
a big, five thousand ton hulk in 19— that I 
fell in with a Spaniard who told me of Ceylon. 
He was supercargo on that trip and we were 
bound from New York to Colombo. 

“The Spaniard was talking with the captain 
night after night and I became so interested that 
it occurred to me that Ceylon would be my 
stopping place. 

“For years I had only been ashore a bit and 


12 


Gray Gull Feathers 


then back for a cruise to Lord knows where. 
You know how those steamers go, Doctor? 
From New York to Valparaiso and from New 
Orleans to Sydney or Iquique. The agents make 
the charters and the captains point the tubs 
according to orders. 

“It had been a fair voyage—that I speak of 
on the Lord Biltmore —and when we w T ere off 
the Malabar coast in the Arabian sea, pointing 
close for Colombo, I made up my mind that 
I’d quit the ship and see what life ashore would 
be like. I had some money—a matter of four 
hundred pounds in gold, and telling my captain 
that I was off for a spell and might not be back 
for a few days at any rate, left the second stew¬ 
ard in charge and went ashore as soon as we 
had made port. 

“I saw the Spaniard—his name was Mendoza, 
just before going ashore. He had business that 
kept him around, but he laughed as I went 
over the side and his look seemed to say ‘There 
goes a fool to blow his money and he’ll come 
back when it is spent.’ He had found out that 
I had some money; I don’t know how. 

“Later in the day I saw Mendoza again; this 
time he was in a little eating place—or maybe 


Gray Gull Feathers 


13 


best say, drinking place—an outdoor affair like 
they have in those tropical places. The Span¬ 
iard was seated at a table. He was with a 
woman. 

“My God, Doctor! That woman’s eyes were 
the most glorious I’ve ever seen! Old sailor 
that I was, used to all the wiles and past master 
in worldliness—that woman fascinated me with 
a single glance. 

“It was just coming on to sunset and through 
the heavy foliage about the place the red and 
gold lights seemed to be shimmering about her. 
I sat down at a table near them, but couldn’t 
take my eyes off the woman.” 

The Captain’s cigar was out again and he 
stopped, closed his eyes and seemed to shiver— 
although it was very warm. 

“Presently Mendoza saw me; I think the 
woman, facing me, called his attention to the 
entry of someone and turning around he beck¬ 
oned me, with his cigarette, to come to their 
table. I was not slow in responding, for the 
spell of the woman was on me and as Mendoza 
greeted me he said ‘La Comtesse Elfreda,’ wav¬ 
ing the cigarette towards his companion, ‘Senor 
Phillipe’ he added, waving to me. 


14 


Gray Gull Feathers 


“The woman smiled and my heart seemed 
about to break through my ribs. ‘The senor 
is some interested in the tea culture/ he told 
her in Spanish—a language which I had studied 
in England and later had used more or less 
often in my roving life. 

“ ‘The Senora has a most wonderful tea 
farm/ Mendoza said to me, ‘It is not far from 
here and is most productive—but alas, the Se¬ 
nora is alone—a widow, and may even sell her 
place and return to Russia where all her people 
live.’ ” 

The Captain paused again—this time seeming 
to voluntarily shrink down. A rustle of wings 
as some night bird passed—or perhaps only the 
camphor tree nearby answering to the light 
breeze. The moon had been under a passing 
cloud and shone out again, clear and strong. 

“Ugh!” from the Captain. He straightened 
up again. “Did you hear that?” 

I had heard nothing unusual or unnatural and 
urged him to go on. The postoffice clock struck 
twelve—and as if aroused by the sound and 
brought back from somewhere the Captain went 
on: 

“Oh, yes; yes! I was at the arbor in Colombo! 


Gray Gull Feathers 


15 


Well; we sat long and talked a great deal. Men¬ 
doza was most anxious to buy liquors and ciga¬ 
rettes—and when he left to escort the woman 
home he promised to meet me later. He soon 
reappeared and we drank and smoked and talked 
until near morning. 

“I guess I left nothing unsaid that would con¬ 
vince him of my admiration for the woman, and 
he, saying that she was an old friend—the widow 
of a Spaniard he had known in Spain, led me 
to understand that the beautiful one was well 
pleased with my looks. When we parted it was 
to meet again at sunset and go to the home of 
the Senora. 

“ ‘It isn’t money that the Elfreda needs,’ Men¬ 
doza told me as we parted that night. What 
she wants is some one to help her manage the 
tea farm. Yet it wouldn’t displease her to have 
some one as an assistant who could put a few 
hundred pounds into the business for extensions 
and improvements.’ 

“This money talk would have opened the eyes 
of any man who had not been blinded by the 
beauty of the woman. To me it was a mere de¬ 
tail—just the matter of occupying so much time 


16 


Gray Gull Feathers 


before I could again see the glorious creature.” 
******* 

Once more the Captain had lapsed into sil¬ 
ence and I did not interrupt his thought; my 
cigar was out now and I was maybe getting a 
bit fidgetty, when the Captain began again: 

“You landlubbers,” he said, rather queer like, 
“who see lovely women every day or hour on the 
streets and in the shops and homes cannot ap¬ 
preciate the feelings of a sailor who hasn’t laid 
eyes on anything more attractive perhaps than 
a Malay Belle in a year’s cruise. Naturally I 
had seen lots of painted beauties in English, 
French and American ports, but this one seemed 
different. Don’t ask me how, or why. I don’t 
know; suppose it was just a case of being hyp¬ 
notized—I was it. 

“Then that next day! Mendoza took me out 
just a little way from the city—and say, Doc¬ 
tor, if you ever have a chance to see a tea farm 
don’t miss it. The tea plants grow in long rows, 
right under huge trees; they are big evergreen 
bushes six or seven feet high and the blossoms 
are very like your orange blossoms—very frag¬ 
rant. And all about the place were flowers and 
palms and ferns and trees of every kind. It is 


Gray Gull Feathers 


17 


very like a flower farm and the odors are almost 
intoxicating. 

“At the lodge, at the entrance to the farm, we 
found the Senora; and at her suggestion we 
walked through paths that were often under 
flower-tree arches. The house, near the center 
of the farm, seemed a fine one for that section, 
but we did not enter—I recall noticing that it 
appeared to be closed up—but attached no im¬ 
portance to this at the time. After strolling 
a bit we were served with tea and cakes and 
liquors in a summer house—the Cyngalese serv¬ 
ants appeared to be about when called and gone 
when not wanted. The moon came up while we 
were there—big and white, changing all the 
colors in the garden to silver and blue. The 
hours passed swiftly. 

“Mendoza, a little after tea was served, de¬ 
clared that he must go back to the ship, but sug¬ 
gested that I might stop a little longer. 

“Sailors are not generally timid; you know 
that, Doctor, eh? Well, I was simply crazy 
about that woman and hadn’t tried very hard to 
keep her from knowing it* The minute Mendoza 
was out of sight I told her that I wanted to 
stay ashore; had four hundred pounds, sterling, 


18 


Gray Gitll Feathers 


and would marry her any minute she indicated. 

“She smiled and in the gentlest sort of way 
begged me not to be so hasty. But I was drunk 
with wine and beauty. The woman kept me at 
a distance, but seemed to be yielding. If I at¬ 
tempted to touch her, she would suggest that the 
servants were still within sight—although I 
didn’t see them. This couldn’t go on indefinitely 
and at last, in answer to my appeals, she prom¬ 
ised to meet me later—in the summer house—at 
midnight. There would be no one about, she 
said.” 

******* 

“In the matter of a few hours I was on my way 
to the tea farm again, and, having taken great 
pains to avoid meeting Mendoza, found the way 
open and went direct to the summer house—I 
call it that because it was a latticed enclosure 
with seats. Everything was quiet and the place 
was as beautiful as a dream under the moon’s 
broad beams. 

“Entering the place I saw the Senora in the 
shadows and as she came towards me her glo¬ 
rious beauty covered me as completely as the 
sea closes over a pebble. I stood an instant as 
though petrified, dumb, and feasted my eyes on 


Gray Gull Feathers 


19 


her charms, only half hidden by a loose and 
flimsy drapery. In another instant I had caught 
her in my arms and pressed her close to me; 
my lips found hers, and—well, I guess I was un¬ 
conscious for a flash. It was like the first long 
swallow of champagne and my brain was on fire 
quickly. * * * * * Then I began to realize that 
something was happening! 

“A tightness at my throat that I tried to un¬ 
derstand—but I was held, it seemed, by some¬ 
thing more powerful than the beauty’s slender 
hands. * * * As my strength gave way to gasp¬ 
ing I could feel her slipping from my embrace; 
and she laughed, softly.* * * It was a laugh 
such as is heard in hell when an angel falls! 

“Fully conscious, although unable to move or 
make a noise, I heard her say: 

“ ‘Guess it’s all right now, Mendy. He’s about 
all in. Hurry and get the yellow boys and we’ll 
be on our way.’ 

“Mendoza, whom I had not seen, appeared 
from the shadow; his hands had prevented mine 
from reaching my neck, which I now knew, 
somehow, was encircled by a silken cord that was 
slowly but surely choking me to death.” 


20 


Gray Gull Feathers 


“That was years and years ago—but, ugh; 
I can feel that cord now, Doctor- I wake up and 
feel it, whenever I try to sleep. 

“The cord was tight enough to make me help¬ 
less and these fiends evidently thought I was done 
for. It was a strand of white silk that had held 
the woman’s negligee of Pongee and lace. It 
had been slipped over my head as I embraced 
her, and Mendoza, from behind, twisted the ends. 
A twist, slow but effective, he accomplished with 
a fan-handle. 

“In that instant of sensibility I realized that 
I had been lured into this trap to be killed and 
robbed. The woman, now busy searching me for 
gold she knew I had brought, talked in rapid 
undertone to Mendoza—it was Russian now, 
perhaps, for I did not understand, although I 
caught a word that sounded like ‘teahaus.’ It 

was the last I knew, for the breath had left me.” 
******* 

“Whew!” said the Captain. “It’s warm in 
Florida, isn’t it, Doctor?” changing his position 
and apparently studying the big hotel with spe¬ 
cial interest—although there was nothing evi¬ 
dent to call for new attention. He hesitated. 
“Maybe you don’t want any more of this yarn. 


Gray Gull Feathers 


21 


You see I’m here and—and perhaps the details 
don’t matter, eh? Probably you’d like to get 
home?” 

“Home nothing,” I said. “Haven’t got any 
home—and if I had I would’nt sleep until I 
knew the rest of the story—” 

“So; so;” he said. “Well; I can’t sleep any¬ 
way. No, I just doze off and then those voices! 
* * * Well, I’ll spin it closer, if you like. Where 
was I? Oh, yes; I’d just caved in under that 
she-devil’s garote. 

“Next thing I knew my arms and legs were 
striking out—the pressure relieved, my mouth 
opened and was filled with cold water—to be 
quickly ejected. It was dark, and finding the 
water shallow I stood up. Near my hand was 
a metal wall—I had been dumped into a water 
tank, near the tea house, my quondam friends 
having thought me dead and wishing to dispose 
of the body. 

“A projecting bit of iron had caught the end 
of the cord, reversed the twists and the water 
had brought back my senses quickly. In another 
minute I had used my sailor wits and was clam¬ 
bering out through the man-hole which had in¬ 
vited my ingress. I stood in the shadow of a 


22 


Gray Gull Feathers 


building that I had previously noticed very near 
the summer house. 

“My stay in the water tank had been very 
brief, for I could see through the lattice-work 
that the man and woman who had so lately 
dragged me to what they expected to be my tomb 
were in the summer house. I crept swiftly up 
and saw them making ready to leave. They had 
my money belt on the rustic bench and each one 
wanted to carry it—then, again in that strange 
tongue, and below the breath, they began to 
quarrel. 

“Mendoza, the big brute, showed his teeth at 
once when the dark eyed beauty pounced, tiger¬ 
like, upon the gold-laden leather. He raised his 
fist as if to strike and like a flash she drew a 
knife from her garter. I was now directly be¬ 
hind him, and as my breath or a breaking twig 
made him hesitate, she struck him, fair in the 
left—he falling forward as she drew out the 
blade. She hadn’t seen me until that instant— 
but it was easy for me to catch in the moon¬ 
light a look in her eyes of hatred and grief. 
Oh, God, that look! In it I read unutterable 
curses for having crossed her path. 

“She turned from me, however, to Mendoza, 


Gray Gull Feathers 


23 


who lay prostrate at her feet, and bending oyer 
him—talking in the same foreign tongue and 
with a moaning that carried sorrow and regret 
as surely as it had anger previously. Glancing 
towards me, as though to ask the possibility 
of his being alive, I could but shake my head, 
and she fairly grovelled in her despair; hug¬ 
ging his body and calling to him in endearing 
tones, in Spanish and that other language. 

“My God! How beautiful she was! Beauti¬ 
ful, a woman—and in her heart love and hate, 
cupidity and tenderness, seeming to try for 
mastery. As I stepped towards her she rose 
and turned—and the passion of a whole race 
was mirrored in her face. Never have I seen 
anything so wonderful as those jet black eyes! 
Her hair, Avhich had shown at first only as a 
soft mass, dark as the night, with a little curl 
at one side, increasing the whiteness of her neck, 
had broken from its golden comb and ribbons 
of white, and fell to her waist in waves. I had 
only known this woman a matter of hours, but 
I was her slave as completely as though she had 
bought and paid for me. 

“We were very near to each other; I could 
almost feel her breath, and the faint perfume 


24 


Gray Gull Feathers 


that I had noticed that first day in the drinking 
place at Colombo made itself felt. I was study¬ 
ing her face, and drunk with passion for her— 
even within the hour when she had tried to kill 
me and in the presence of her dead lover, slain 
by her hand. It seemed years before I could 
speak; then it was more pantomine than con¬ 
versation. 

“ ‘Come,’ I said, beckoning away. I held out 
my arms to her and indicated that I would share 
her flight and gladly take a part of the blame 
in the tragedy. My love for her was in my 
words and eyes and movements, and watching 
her I could see at first alarm, then awakening— 
then despair and hatred. 

“ ‘Go,’ she said, her lips scarcely moving, yet 
with an accent of the deepest import. ‘Go; with 
you? No, no; no; no! Never. See what you 
have caused me to do—curse you, and your 
miserable breed forever! See! You have made 
me kill this man whom I loved. He was my 
life, and now he is dead—dead!’ She turned 
to the prostrate form again. 

“Rising she turned once more to me as I stood 
in the door of the summer house. The moon 
was shining almost full upon her and her form 


Gray Gull Feathers 


25 


was silhouetted in white against the dark lat¬ 
tice-work. The look on her face had changed to 
resignation. Scarlet lips that had met mine 
to betray me a few moments before were trem¬ 
ulous and the glorious eyes glistened with un¬ 
shed tears. As she turned I could see that she 
had picked up the blood-stained dagger, which 
had fallen after her lover fell. 

“ ‘He has called me/ she whispered, as though 
in a dream. ‘I will go to him, as I have always 
done; wherever fate led him. I will go to my 
Mendoza/ 

“With her left hand she tore apart the drap¬ 
ery at her throat, revealing a bust as glorious 
as ever sculptor carved upon Hebe, and even 
smiled as if noticing my open admiration. 

“The smile quickly changed to a look of hatred, 
however, as searching her bosom as though for 
the vital spot, she said: ‘Aye; you cursed Eng¬ 
lishman; you dog. You came back too soon— 
but you shall not have me! No, no! I go to 
him—and together we will follow you over the 
earth V 

“Within arm’s length of her I was as one 
paralyzed, and I saw her tear asunder her gar¬ 
ment as though to further inflame and disap- 


26 


Gray Gull Feathers 


point me, and then coolly plunge the little blade 
just below her breast. 

“She fell into my arms and snatching out the 
knife I knew that my efforts would not avail— 
that the blood of the twain were upon it, and 
they were dead!” 

* * * * * * * 

“What’s that Doctor? Oh, yes. Of course; 
of course. I wasn’t asleep. No—just thinking. 
Say, do you know I feel better than I have be¬ 
fore in years—all the time I’ve had that inside 
and told no one; it’s a relief to share something 
like that. Of course I don’t feel that I was to 
blame—that is, not much. Well, maybe they’ll 
let me alone now that I’ve explained it. But 
you are asking for the end of the story. Well, 
I would’nt say that it has ended yet—but I 
hope so. 

“Going back to Ceylon then—it was about 
one o’clock that night when I laid the body of 
the dead woman beside her lover and taking 
my money belt I left the plantation and struck 
out for the big woods. I decided at once that 
it wouldn’t do to be found in Colombo next day 
or ever again, and headed for Port de Galle. In 
a way I knew where I was going, but I was prac- 


Gray Gull Feathers 


27 


tically walking in my sleep the rest of that night, 
and, hiding closely at daybreak, managed some¬ 
how to work along the coast, but not too near, 
until some distance from Colombo. I had plenty 
of money, was used to roughing it, and in the 
course of a week I had reached the south end 
of the island and took passage on a vessel sailing 
for Australia. 

“There wasn’t anything particular to tell 
about that voyage—only I heard some of the 
crew talking about the double murder that had 
taken place in Colombo and the fact that I had 
disappeared was mentioned as possible evidence 
against me. But I had grown a beard and was 
far enough away not to worry about that in Port 
de Galle. And later I made another voyage 
under a different name again. 

“It was the voyage away from Sydney that 
later brought out the fact that I closely resem¬ 
bled the captain. My whiskers had been grow¬ 
ing since the trouble in Ceylon, and I guess the 
captain of the J. W. Auxland and I could have 
swapped places without many people knowing 
it during the first few days out of Sydney. In 
size, coloring, age, hair, eyes and whiskers we 
were practically the same. At sea the captain 


28 


Gray Gull Feathers 


was not much dressed up—you know—and the 
second steward looked very similar—that being 
me. 

“It had been a long time since the tragedy at 
Colombo, but I Avas thinking things over as we 
were coming into the China Sea, bound for 
Hong Kong. I had been taking a little nap for¬ 
ward when I thought I heard voices that I 
couldn’t understand. The ship had a crew of 
Malays and the white men were all far away— 
but the voices were perfectly plain, though 
whispering: 

“ ‘There he is now’ said a soft, feminine voice. 

“ ‘Si, Senora,’ was the reply, in a deep, re¬ 
strained tone. ‘Now we get him; ze Englise 
hound!’ 

“Certain that I was dreaming, I recognized 
Elfreda and Mendoza. A chill crept over me— 
and I tried to reason with myself—my eyes were 
staring straight at the moon—and as I raised 
my head two gray gulls fluttered so near me 
that I thought they must have alighted on the 
deck. 

“The next morning it was reported that the 
captain was dead. It was awfully strange—so 
everyone said—the officers called it suicide. 


Gray Gull Feathers 


29 


He had been taking a nap on the starboard side 
of the second bridge. Those big tramps have two 
bridges, you know. He was found strangled, 
with a wisp of silk around his neck—the ends 
twisted. It really didn’t look as though he 
could have done it himself, and yet the two or 
three officers on the bridge below were certain 
that nobody had been above. ‘Not a living thing 
had passed that way except a couple of gulls 
that had been following the ship the past few 
days,’ said the second mate—and somehow I 
knew that Elfreda and Mendoza had thought 
they got me! 

“We buried the captain at sea the next day, 
and nobody grieved as I did. Of course there 
wasn’t the faintest suspicion in my direction. 
I was busy with the cook and cabin boy after 
mess and in quarters later and was apparently 
as much mystified as anybody when the poor 
captain was found dead. 

“But you can bet I kept off the deck as much 
as possible the rest of the voyage, and, landing 
at New York, I decided to stay ashore. ***** 
And that’s pretty much all of the story, Doctor 
—it may be finished soon, though. Well, I 
worked in restaurants and hotels all around in 


30 


Gray Gull Feathers 


the States- Came here from Baltimore about 
six months ago—and nothing else happened, 
until last night—no, it was the night before; but 
I haven’t slept since, and it is on my nerves— 
I told you—or rather asked you, about the 
voices.” 

The Captain shivered at the recollection. I did 
remember that he had said something about 
voices—at the very outset of our conversation— 
but I had forgotten in the interest of his story. 
“Yes,” I said. “But no doubt you were mistaken.” 

“It’s just about the anniversary of that night 
in Ceylon,” he said. “The moon was just like 
it is tonight, and somehow I believe that they 
have followed me—and are only waiting a chance 
to get me.” He looked furtively around as 
though anticipating something dreaded, yet in¬ 
evitable. “They were outside my window last 
night—whispering, and I heard them, clearly. 

“No use to say anything, Doctor, I knew the 
voices. They’ve talked right over my head in 
dreams, over and over again. But last night 
I was wide awake. The moon was shining in 
my window and through the screen I heard a 
rustling—then the voices— 


Gray Gull Feathers 


31 


“ ‘There lie is/ she said; ‘There he is; now 
we can get him!’ 

“ ‘That’s the Englise beast/ he answered. 
‘Si; si; we’ll get him.’ 

“I jumped up and went to the window—but 
they had gone. I couldn’t sleep. All night I 
laid awake. Tonight I have been to bed and got 
up to come down here. ***** m p ave to 
sleep sometime; maybe I’ll get some powders. 
Do you know what I should take, Doctor?” 

The Captain recovered himself with an effort 
—adding quickly: 

“No, no; of course not- I don’t want any 
powders. Or if I do I’ll look in at the little 
store on the corner—that’s open all night. See 
you tomorrow, perhaps; eh, Doctor. Ugh! I’m 
almost chilly—just talking about—well, good¬ 
night, Doctor. I’ll just go along.” 

“Good night, Captain,” I said. “You ought 
to be tired enough to sleep tonight without 
drugs.” He took my hand as I extended it 
to him—and his was clammy. “Have you been 
taking things already?” I asked. 

“No, Doctor, not a thing. But I thought I 
heard wings, just then; did you hear anything?” 
He shivered and started away. “Bah; I’m get- 


32 


Gray Gull Feathers 


ting nerves like an old woman. Good night; 
good night.” 

The Captain slowly passed down Hogan Street, 
turning at Adams, and I sat still for a few min¬ 
utes, thinking over his weird story. It was past 
two o’clock now, and lighting another cigar I 
took my way toward Laura Street, going to my 
room. Just as I struck the match I thought 
I heard the whirring of wings. Something shim¬ 
mered in the moonlight that suggested the idea 
of big birds—going westward. 

“Pshaw!” said I to myself. “You’re getting 
silly.” 

******* 

I was late going to my breakfast-lunch the 
next day. Gilreath’s great crowd of hungry folks 
that begin to call for pot-roast and spaghetti, 
corned beef and cabbage and almost everything 
else at about 11:30 had been fairly well satisfied 
by 2 o’clock p. m., and I could look the place over 
as I climbed onto a stool. I was expecting the 
Captain to serve me, but gave my order to an¬ 
other waiter who was handy, and not until I 
was paying my check did I ask about the stout 
man. 

“O, the waiter the boys call the Captain? 


Gray Gull Feathers 


33 


Why, lie hasn’t been in today,” said the manager. 
“No one here seems to know where he lives and 
I suppose he was out rather late last night, or 
something, and decided not to come to work 
today.” 

As I turned to go out the manager added: 
“Queer Jeems that fellow is—but he’s a first 
class waiter—no fault to find with his work— 
reserved and uncommunicative. Guess he’s 
seen better days—like a lot of ’em.” 

The telephone at the manager’s elbow rang 
just then and as I moved on I was surprised, for 
the manager had raised a hand to indicate that I 
should wait. 

His face wore a puzzled expression—then, an¬ 
swering, he said: “What’s that? Our man 
Jones—the big fat Englishman? Dead! For 
Heaven’s sake, what was the matter? What 
was that—O, yes,—Bay Street? Eh-huh. Yes, 
sure; I’ll come down right away.” 

“And I’ll go with you,” I said, as the manager 
put up the phone. He called to an assistant 
and on the way told me that a servant in the 
rooming house had just discovered that the 
“Captain” was dead—and not asleep, as she had 
thought when passing the room earlier in the 


34 


Gray Gull Feathers 


day. The landlady had phoned to the police 
and to the restaurant where it was known the 
dead man had worked. 

We reached the house just as two men from 
the Central police station were entering—and 
there was my friend of the night before, stretched 
sidewise across the bed. A policeman straight¬ 
ened him around, and as he was turned it seemed 
to me that I could see a red streak on his 
heavy neck. But maybe that was imagination. 

A physician came in, and, making a cursory 
examination, remarked that the man had prob¬ 
ably died about twelve hours previously to dis¬ 
covery. 

“Here’s the reason,” he said, picking up a 
white paper from the little pine table, where it 
had lain near a glass that contained a few drops 
of water. 

The necessary orders and directions were 
given and the man on the beat took charge, re¬ 
lieving the man from headquarters, waiting for 
the undertaker. 

Behind the others I lingered a minute to look 
upon the face of this man who had known so 
little peace in this world; it was calm now; 
his eyes were closed. I was wondering if it 


Gray Gull Feathers 


35 


were better or worse that his people would never 
know his story and the end, when the officer 
interrupted my thoughts— 

“Queer lookin’ feathers,” he said. He had 
been “sleiuthing” about the room and picked 
them off the floor, near the window. “Guess he 
knocked them out of his pillow in his struggles.” 

“Gull feathers!” I said to myself; even then 
amused—for there had been no struggle—and 
the poor pillow was guiltless of feathers. 

Stepping towards the window I noticed for 
the first time that the screen had fallen inside 
the room; my foot touched the flimsy, adjust¬ 
able wire arrangement and as I straightened it 
against the wall I saw on the rusted wires a 
raveling of white silk. 

The officer had handed me the gray feathers, 
and, releasing them at the window, I watched 
them float away towards the St. Johns river, 
while ugly facts and weird fancies began a con¬ 
troversy in my brain that has not yet been settled. 


A GATE IN THE HIGH WALL 

A Story of Old Charleston 


Gaunt, bare trees with snapping twigs, rib¬ 
bon grass grown out of its borders and pitiful 
as a faded beauty; walks with identity nearly 
lost by scattered conch shells that once defined 
their limits and tufts of dried and tangled weeds. 
Over near a patched, but fallen, summer house, 
high stalks of pampas grass, frayed out like 
a much-used duster, and a tiny bridge whose 
rotted planking would surely have precipitated 
the venturesome to dry hollows below. A foun¬ 
tain rim, further on, which no doubt once gave 
the little lake its overflow, cracked and broken, 
the centerpiece gone and the basin overgrown 
with rank grasses, all dead and ugly. Here and 
there in the tangle of wild vines and seedlings 
showed patches of pale green. Cedars with un¬ 
kempt and dusty plumes, a live oak that seemed 
to belie its name and a few hedge plants show¬ 
ing long absence of the gardener’s hook. A sin¬ 
gle laurel—they call them magnolias in the 
South—proud and graceful, stood over near the 
house, its satin leaves catching the light that 


A Gate In The High Wall 


37 


probably seldom penetrated the sleeping wil¬ 
derness below. Across from the fountain a 
shapeless mass of shells told of a grotto, and, 
near to a high iron fence at the east, stray 
conchs indicated formal flower beds—long ago 
—and a gravel walk that started at the huge 
iron gates, noAV chained and rusting away. 

In the highest part of the old garden stood 
the house. Time’s hand showed in the masonry, 
but its splendid lines were not lost. The brick, 
hand-made and perhaps brought from a far coun¬ 
try, and maybe filled with iron—they tell that 
St. Michael’s church is builded of brick so 
made—and the marble cornices and sills, al¬ 
though stained with age, gave ample detail of 
the fine chiseling; the red Spanish tiled roof 
seemed capable of defying another century of 
wind and rain. The great window-eyes of the 
house were closed with heavy blinds, as also 
the ample portal, tight shut like the lips of a 
giant asleep—yet in his rest giving full evidence 
of a stern command. “Call not the spirit of this 
house,” it seemed to say, “in mockery or trifling.” 

The eve-windows to the north and east, when 
opened, looked out upon a strip of marsh land, 
and then away up the Cooper river that winds 


38 


Gray Gull Feathers 


down towards the sea. A little way from the 
high-walled garden could be seen, crumbling 
into shapelessness, earthworks, thrown up when 
Charleston was beseiged years and years ago. 
Across the river miles and miles of pinelands, 
making fringe to the horizon—to the west of 
the river sparsely settled with here and there a 
wharf or factory, the peninsula being so nar¬ 
row as to easily see from Cooper to Ashley, at 
an elevation. 

A half-opened gate in the massive brick wall 
that was so often to be found in Old Charleston 
a few years ago, sometimes topped with broken 
glass and dating back to the days when all slaves 
must be on their master’s premises when the 
drum beat in St. Michael’s tower, had tempted 
me into the old garden, ’way up at the edge of 
the city, and, wandering and wondering, an 
hour went by. An alien, transplanted into the 
Southland, I had found much in Charleston to 
interest, but never before had I happened upon 
this deserted castle with its spacious, stone¬ 
walled garden. 

And while I lingered, perhaps musing over 
what might have transpired within these walls, 
a huge Danish hound came slowly toward me 


rV Gate In The High Wall 


39 


from a far section of the grounds I judged to 
have been the negro quarters—always removed 
a distance from the “big house.” He was a 
friendly animal, and I guess dogs always know 
their friends. Patting his head and speaking 
admiringly I saw following a negro girl—but 
she did not seem disposed to be rude to the in¬ 
terloper. 

“Even’n’, suh,” she said, in response to my 
greeting. “But I aint he’rd no knock, sub.” 

“Didn’t knock at all, Auntie,” I said. “Just 
walked right in through that gate in the wall. 
And whose place is this?” 

“Dis am de DeBrough place, suh,” she ans¬ 
wered. “But dey aint yere. ***** An’ when yo’ 
goes out, pleze shet de gate; yas-suh.” 

There was no arguing with this woman. What¬ 
ever faults the Southern negro may have they 
do not talk their master’s business matters over 
with strangers. I had found that out in my short 
stay, and, turning to leave, thanked her, patted 
my friend the Dane and again went through 
the wall gate. The night was now coming on; 
a cold mist was coming up from the river and 
a half-grown moon was making shadows in the 
deserted street that I had followed almost to 


40 


Gray Gull Feathers 


the marshes. Crossing two or three other dirt- 
paved streets I reached one with a car line and 
was soon down town again and back at work. 

II 

May, with its lassitude, its new green draperies 
for the trees and flowers for the town gardens 
and spring styles on King Street, had come in its 
regular course, when, a few months later, I was 
trying to keep cool at the office. Not far from 
the bay, there was a slight breeze, and the elec¬ 
tric fan overhead was doing its best, while I, 
without coat or collar or tie, plodded on as the 
big clock showed near midnight. I had just 
filled my pipe and was looking all about for a 
match when the telephone at my elbow rang 
violently. All smokers will understand that 
this was a moment of importance—and modern 
times having taken away the candles and later 
the gas jets, so convenient to users of the weed— 
a match must be found somewhere in the pigeon¬ 
holes or desk drawers or under some papers. 

It had been a warm day—May is hot in the 
South sometimes, and things had not gone so 
well—slow thinking and slower action—a pipe 


A Gate In The High Wall 


41 


is a wonderful help when the brain is fagged. 
The match-box finally located, I took my time 
and let the phone ring—in fact I had forgot¬ 
ten that source of so much joy and sorrow and 
mixed emotions in the first few deep draws of 
Durham fine-cut. The bell stopped, and then 
started again, this time it seemed louder than 
before. Still I puffed away with a satisfied 
feeling and watched the smoke as it spread 
about, a fragrant cloud that I noticed was 
evidently displeasing two or three mosquitoes 
who had been trying to navigate the fan currents 
and get into my zone. It was now twelve o’clock 
and forgetting the phone I was thinking of a 
start for the boarding house, up Meeting Street, 
when the telephone din once more attracted my 
attention. 

Grabbing the receiver off with a jerk I sent 
in a lively “Yes, yes; this is nine-double four! 
Who do you want?” 

“Would like to speak to Mr. Debs Bookton,” 
said a pleasant voice that I failed to recognize. 

“This is Bookton,” I snapped; “but what’s 
the row? What is it all about?” 

“I’m surely sorry I disturbed you, Mr. Book- 
ton,” said the even, quiet voice again. “If I 


42 


Gray Gull Feathers 


had time I should call personally instead of ap¬ 
proaching you in this very informal way. I 
am Colonel DeB rough. You do not know me, 
of course, but I knew your father, in New 
Rochelle; heard that you were in Charleston and 
want you to come up to my house. Yes. To¬ 
night. We are having a little informal party 
for my daughter. An invitation was sent you, 
but I find that it was unfortunately sent to a 
wrong address. No. It isn’t too late and I’ve 
already taken the liberty of sending my carriage 
for you—probably you will find Jim waiting 
now. Your costume will be all right. It is 
strictly informal. Some of the boys, myself in¬ 
cluded, have on our uniforms. * * * We are ex¬ 
pecting you,” he said, and, with a cheery laugh, 
hung up the receiver at the far end. 

“Pictures in the smoke,” said I, as I also hung 
up. “Somebody is evidently trying to string me.” 

“Waitin’ fo’ yo’, suh,” said a voice at the office 
door almost before I had swung around from the 
phone. “De Runnel, he says I was to fotch yo’, 
right away, suh.” 

An old darkey dressed as a footman was stand¬ 
ing there—Jim, presumably. And, amazed at 
myself for the impulse, I rose and began to put 


A Gate In The High Wall 


43 


on collar and tie and coat. Stranger yet, I 
turned off the electric light and followed the 
negro downstairs to the street. 

Strangely enough, I had not heard any vehicle 
on the street for an hour past—the cobble stones 
would have resounded at that time of night— 
but the carriage was there, a Victoria I guess 
they called it, with two horses and the driver 
way up in front. Fighting an impulse to go 
the other way I nevertheless stepped into the 
carriage and, as Jim got up beside the driver— 
another old negro man, away we went. 

The night air and the motion acting as a 
stimulant I more fully realized the absurdity 
of the whole affair—here I was, almost a stranger 
in the city, going for a ride in a stranger’s car¬ 
riage, bound I knew not where—unless to the 
rendezvous of some robber band desirous of 
holding me for ransom or cutting off my ears! 

“Hold up! Stop! Hey!” I yelled to the ne¬ 
groes on the front of the carriage, but they ap¬ 
parently did not hear and if anything drove 
faster. The moon was up, almost full, and 
through the well nigh deserted streets it seemed 
as though we were flying. No one paid any at¬ 
tention to us, although we were taking corners 


44 


Gray Gull Feathers 


and passing other vehicles, I thought, at danger¬ 
ous speed. Twice I tried to attract the atten¬ 
tion of policemen, but it was as though they had 
seen nothing, as we almost brushed one’s coat 
on Marion Square, and dashed in front of the 
horse of another near a big church. I thought 
of jumping out—and drew back, realizing the 
hazard was as great as anything I might be go¬ 
ing toward. 

In what seemed both an age and a few seconds 
we were turning into a dirt street, and the car¬ 
riage stopped suddenly in front of a great man¬ 
sion brilliantly lighted and showing its fine lines 
in the moonlight. 

A high iron fence, fantastically fashioned, was 
in front, and inside I could see the spacious 
grounds decorated and illuminated for a fete. 
The house and grounds seemed strangely famil¬ 
iar—but things were happening and I was not 
left to wonder when I had seen the place pre¬ 
viously. 

Abandoning now the idea that I was being 
abducted, I found myself stepping willingly to 
the pavement and through the gateway towards 
the house. 

A tall, handsome man, wearing a gray uniform 


A Gate In The High Wall 


45 


—and his right arm in a white silk handker- 
chief sling, stepped forward as I ascended the 
marble steps. Without being told, I knew that 
this was Colonel DeBrough, and, glancing about, 
noticed that the house and grounds were filled 
with people, in the light and attractive garb of 
summer. Not all, though, for the men, young 
and old, seemed to be wearing gray uniforms— 
even a boy of not more than thirteen who had 
run down the steps as I came in, was in uniform 
—Confederate gray I knew it to be—and some¬ 
how thought it was the most natural thing in 
the world. 

On the wide porch the light inside showed 
great rooms, handsomely furnished and lighted 
-—with candles—and that only made me remem¬ 
ber that the St. Cecelia society, in town, always 
used candles to light their ball-room—’way 
down to the nineteen hundreds. The draw¬ 
ing rooms presented a scene of attractiveness 
such as I had seldom gazed upon—but now the 
Colonel was extending his left hand and saying: 

“I know you will excuse my left hand, Mr. 
Bookton,” with a merry laugh such as I had 
heard over the phone a short time before. “The 
boys said I held up my right hand for a Yankee 


46 


Gray Gull Feathers 


bullet just so as to get a few clays off from Vir¬ 
ginia. It isn’t much of a scratch and doesn’t 
interfere with the pleasures of the night at 
all—although it’s off to the front again tomor¬ 
row. 

“You are in time for the cotillion, Mr. Book- 
ton. Yes; and your summer suit is all right— 
gray in fact, although not exactly the gray we 
are wearing. Everything is strictly informal, 
as I told you; and I may repeat that your father’s 
son is welcome in my house at any time and 
under all circumstances. We’ll talk more of 
other days at another time, maybe—I hope so— 
but now I must find you a partner for the dance.” 

A group of half a dozen young people were 
passing up the steps and into the house when the 
Colonel called, cheerily: 

“Helen!” he said. “Helen dear; just a min¬ 
ute.” 

Maybe the combination of lights, the music, 
that now surged out from the lower rooms, the 
incense of jessamine and honeysuckle and gar¬ 
denias, had to do with things that followed. I 
only knew that, when Helen left the group and 
came to her father’s side and nodded and smiled 
as he told her of his acquaintance with my fam- 


A Gate In The High Wall 


47 


ily and the chance of my coining out to the party, 
I was falling in love with Helen faster than ever 
a man fell down stairs. 

Presently I found myself saying “and you can 
and will dance the cotillion with me?” totally 
indifferent to the absolute adoration expressed 
in my eyes and tone of voice. This special honor 
of dancing with the daughter of the house and 
maybe the belle of the neighborhood—I was 
sure of this part at the moment—was intoxi¬ 
cation unusual. We turned into the front par¬ 
lor and here I was introduced to her mother 
and a score of young people and some of their 
elders. The music, which had been the prelude, 
now proclaimed the beginning of the cotillion, 
and through its pretty and interesting measures 
and figures I was conscious only of a desire to 
get back to my partner whenever the leader 
separated us. In fact I was being led and with¬ 
out protest—a single strand of her golden- 
brown hair, petulant because held by tortoise¬ 
shell bars, strayed out—to be laughingly put 
back when noticed by the owner, held me tighter 
and more securely than could a cable chain. 

An intermission in the dancing—(when had I 
seen such grace and beauty!) and Helen es- 


48 


Gray Gull Feathers 


corted me through the other rooms of the house, 
the dining room, all set for the supper which 
was shortly to be served; the library with its 
leather chairs and shelves of books and pictures 
by Sully, Reynolds and Stuart, and then, follow¬ 
ing Helen into the garden, it was to walk through 
conch-shell-lined paths, across a tiny lake. The 
waters, dimpling, reflected the moon rays and 
reproduced in white garlands the Cherokee roses 
growing away from the banks. The plash of 
the fountain, beyond great masses of variegated 
ribbon grass and pampas, was faintly echoed as 
miniature waves lapped the supports of the rus¬ 
tic bridge. Pausing near a summer house—a 
latticed enclosure with fanciful roof and benches, 
Helen discovered a couple already in possession 
—and very happy. 

“We ought not to disturb Yic and Palaja,” 
she said, turning away. “Vic is my cousin, you 
know; and she’s from the West Indies. O, very 
dark and beautiful!” 

I did not know—until then—but I knew that 
Helen was beautiful and that whatever she 
wished was my wish. 

On we went in the perfumed night, so full 
of light and happiness, toward a corner of the 


A Gate In The High Wall 


49 


garden almost liid by a glorious growth of trees 
and flowers; these were azaleas—a wonderful 
plant that covers itself with red and purple and 
snow white and scarlet and mottled flowers be* 
fore a leaf comes forth. I recognized the wonder¬ 
ful fragrance, for I had previously visited that 
world famous spot, Magnolia Gardens, on the 
Ashley, and been added to the list of enthu¬ 
siasts. Here we found another latticed and rus¬ 
tic shelter, and from the steps a view was had 
of the house and grounds. 

How wonderously beautiful it was! A mag¬ 
nificent laurel in front of the house, standing 
like a sentinel, displayed hundreds of huge 
white blooms against the deep glistening shadow 
of the foliage; their heavy odor, lotus-like, came 
to us, a drowsy caress borne on the wings of the 
winds which stirred the steel-shimmer of the 
waters over beyond the place and rustled the 
leaves of the pink and white oleanders near the 
big gates. 

Silent, in the spell of the night, watching the 
river, a shadow passed along, then upon it a 
break of smoky, yellow light; a lumber raft 
coming down the Cooper. The negroes with their 
long sweeps were droning: 


50 


Gray Gull Feathers 


“My yaller gal—gal—gal, 

She name bin Sal; 

She name bin Sal, 

My Yal-ler gal-1-1!” 

“Do you like our Southland?” Helen is saying. 

And then I heard myself talking about the 
things I had seen and the false impressions dis¬ 
pelled. I predicted great prosperity for the 
South and everything that seemed to be desirable 
for Helen’s section of the country, and all the 
while I was trying to get my voice to a personal 
subject. I was madly in love with Helen and 
wanted to tell her so, regardless of consequences. 
Somehow she seemed to understand that my 
words were not all that suited me, and was 
amused—not angry. In desperation I asked if 
I might smoke. 

“Surely, smoke; I like a good cigar—when 
someone else smokes it—Daddy is a great smoker 
and gets his from Havana, when he can,” she 
said. 

She struck the match for me on the sole of 
the daintiest little white shoe that I had ever seen 
and held it out to me—I touched her hand to 
steady it—and looking straight into the bronze- 
brown eyes, and then at the Cupid’s bow mouth, 


A Gate In The High Wall 


51 


the lips just parted to show a row of pearls, her 
unruly hair, the soft whiteness of her neck and 
the graceful turn of her arm and figure—just 
budding into womanhood, I felt myself regain¬ 
ing control of my tongue— 

“Helen!” I almost shouted in my eargerness, 
imprisoning the soft little hand the while, “I—” 

But the match had burned too long and fell 
on my hand. I started involuntarily—with the 
pain—and—it seemed that her face was chang- 
ing— 

******* 

The face I looked into was that of a telegraph 
messenger boy. 

“Sorry to bother you, boss;” said the boy, 
with an ill-concealed grin; “But you dropped 
your pipe and spilled the fire. Guess you were 
taking a little nap. And here’s a telegram for 
you; it’s important, I guess, and sixty-eight 
cents to collect.” 

On the floor lay my pipe; ashes all over my 
desk and a smarting sensation on my right hand 
told of sparks caught in passing. My watch 
lay on the desk—it said 12:05—I had been dream- 
ing! 

The telegram was from New Rochelle and sug- 


52 


Gray Gull Feathers 


gested that I return north as soon as possible 
to settle matters concerning my father’s estate. 
The next day I was northward bound, with my 
return problematical. 


Ill 

Straggling thro’ hedge of branches bare 

The red-gold sun makes jest of dropping leaves, 

Of blistered bark and splintered limb— 

Thro’ to a ruined resting place, and there 

Finds challenge in the gold-glints of a maiden’s hair. 

Business matters made it necessary for me to 
change my plans very considerably in the next 
few years after my short stay in Charleston. 
For two years I lived in Florida. Then another 
change seemed advisable, and, in February, 
again I found myself in the old City by the Sea, 
this time not knowing just how long it would be 
to linger within the sound of Old St. Michael’s 
chimes and the cry of the shrimp vendors in the 
early mornings. It was only natural that I 
should recall the remarkably pleasant briar- 
pipe dream, soon after reaching Charleston, 
and when within a few days I had found time 
for a stroll, my desire to seek out the old gar¬ 
den once more was strong. It wasn’t very 


A Gate In The High Wall 


53 


pleasant weather—February is not a very good 
month in that section, but I determined to try 
for the gate and the garden, again to live over 
that perfectly wonderful hour (really five min¬ 
utes) that I had enjoyed in my dream. 

More than thirty-five years had gone over my 
head and the world had given me all that I de¬ 
served—and many know that this is but sorry 
recompense for the work and worry of existence. 
All, and no more. The most of my life had been 
lonely. Maybe it was my fault—but what has 
that to do with it? 

This afternoon was all my own, and I reached 
the neighborhood by asking questions and mak¬ 
ing a few mistakes—although the city had not 
changed that I could see—and the dirt was still 
in some streets and cobblestones in others. I 
had stumbled across the dream place by accident 
at first—now it was to find it without having 
known of other than general directions. There 
are many places yet where high walls—some 
with glass bottles broken and worked into the 
cement at the top—show the futile attempts made 
by owners to protect property—living and in¬ 
animate. I approached the place this time from 
the front—where Jim and the carriage had 


54 


Gray Gull Feathers 


brought me in the smoke-cloud picture, and there 
was the big house, all tight shut and forbidding, 
and the great iron gates all curled and twisted 
and fashioned in rusted metal flowers and spears 
and loops, close bound by a rusty chain. 

Following around the high wall through 
sand and weeds it was to locate on the back 
street the little gate. It was tight shut, and 
remembering the colored woman’s remark I 
tapped sharply with my cane, and waited. There 
was no response from the inside. 

Two negroes—so black that you couldn’t tell 
where their clothes stopped and their heads 
began—were going along, trailing a toy wagon 
filled with somebody’s wash. They noticed me, 
and said: 

“De people what lives in ther’s done move 
away.” 

I thanked them, but, indignant that the lan¬ 
guage should thus be murdered, I gave the gate 
a vicious kick—just a flat-footed push, maybe, 
but with some exasperation behind it. The jolt 
loosened something and I tried again. This 
time the result was satisfactory. I had forced 
a staple from the old mortar, and, the bar fall- 


A Gate In The High Wall 


55 


ing, I walked, unabashed, through the hole in 
the wall as though I had business there. 

How little the garden had changed since my 
first prowl—how different from my fanciful 
smoke sketch! There were the dried, dead weeds, 
the ribbon grass gone rioting and losing caste; 
a few toads hopped away as I tramped over the 
scattered conch shells and made my path to¬ 
ward the further summer house. 

I was not surprised to see my old friend, the 
Dane, come lazily toward me as I proceeded— 
he had been far in the garden this time, how¬ 
ever, and not towards the negro quarter. He 
seemed to know me—dogs do not forget—and as 
I patted him and spoke I thought I heard a 
voice, in the garden. 

“Tiger! Tiger!” it said. There was no mis¬ 
taking it now. The voice, low and musical, was 
not a command, but a call that man or dog must 
answer, the sweetness fairly sugar-coating the 
terrible name of the animal summoned. 

Then, almost at my elbow, seated at ease on 
the steps of the ruined summer house—it was to 
discover the girl of my dream! 

“Helen!” once more my voice was raised; in 
bewilderment I feared that I was again dreaming. 


56 


* Gray Gull Feathers 


"Yes,” she said; her voice sounding like rose 
petals falling on the strings of a harp, “that is 
my name,” (I felt myself pinching my arm or 
doing something to be sure that I was awake), 
“but I think you might mention your own name 
—and explain how you came here and why you 
are walking in grandfather’s old place—I 
thought I closed the gate when I came in.” 

Once more my voice failed me—was I indeed 
awake—or was this another dream? Standing 
silent I could see a shade of compassion coming 
to replace that of startled resentment. 

“I see you are a friend of Tiger’s,” she said, 
charitably trying to ease my mind, “and maybe 
you had permission to come in—” 

It was now possible for me to talk a little, and 
rattle along was the order for a few minutes, 
while Helen sat, toying with a few plumes from 
the pampas tangle that grew, despite neglect, 
near the old shelter. Prosy details regarding 
my family, my previous residence in Charleston 
and return after some years away. I had found 
out in some way that my folks had known the 
DeBroughs in the years gone by, and, not dar¬ 
ing to tell her of my dream, I enlarged upon the 
former intimacy of our antecedents and enlarged 


A Gate In The High Wall 


57 


upon my love for the South and desire to live 
there always hereafter. 

The bronze-brown eyes were looking straight 
into mine and a lock of golden-brown hair that 
had played truant from the tortoise-shell school 
nodded to me in the night breeze—now making 
itself felt from the river. 

“Yes,” she is saying, “Fm sure your father and 
my grandfather must have been good friends, 
as you saybut her tone was not convincing. 

Over on the river—a huge, ugly ship was at 
pier, within reach almost, and the negro roust¬ 
abouts were still packing cotton into the big hold. 
They work in gangs and are paid for the amount 
accomplished—oftimes they sing—and now their 
chanty was clearly audible, with the drift of the 
wind— 

“Ent yo’ seen my Lizer? 

Ent yo’ seen my Lizer? 

Ent yo’ seen my Li-izer, 

Wid de grate, big lumpkin ey-zer!” 

We both laughed—for the rhythm and wail¬ 
ing harmonies were ill suited to the mixed En¬ 
glish and “Gullah” words. 

Now Helen is saying, “Grandfather DeBrough 
was killed just at the close of the war. He left 


58 


Gray Gull Feathers 


here the day after Aunt Helen’s nineteenth 
birthday party—It was a lovely party, the folks 
said; and he never came back. ***** Those 
must have been awful times, Mr. Bookton. 
And hard times came afterwards also—my 
mother sometimes tells us of the hardships, and 
then says that we should not dwell on the un¬ 
happy memories, only be glad that the war is 
over and pray that there may never be another. 
* * * * *But will you come over to the house— 
it’s only on the next street—and meet my mother, 
and the others?” 

As in the picture, briar-made, I see myself 
following her nod and call. 

And probably I always will. 


WHEN ELMVILLE BACKSLID 


“Verily,” said the Great Evangelist! “verily, 
things shall be even as they are, unto the end; 
and henceforth the Golden Rule, that I have 
brought unto you, shall be the measure for 
every action, and the reward will be Eternal 
life; Amen!” 

He was a Great Evangelist. No discussion was 
allowed on the subject; and as a matter of fact, 
he admitted it himself—in the carefully pre¬ 
pared press notices handed to the editor of the 
Elmville Times each week. When asked about 
his title the Reverend Parenthesis C. Hawley was 
likely to change the subject and lead into a dis¬ 
cussion of the eradication of the taint of origi¬ 
nal sin by verbal purging and athletic sprint¬ 
ing toward the collection table. 

The “Great” revival, which had been in prog¬ 
ress at Elmville the past month, was not of the 
common, or garden, variety. Not at all. Spe¬ 
cial features were announced daily. The mov¬ 
ing picture man’s machine and operator had 
been secured in advance; the town band and or- 


60 


Gray Gull Feathers 


chestra engaged for indoor and outdoor service, 
the town hall secured; and the revival was the 
only thing going on in Elmville. 

Appealed to by Hawley, the local preachers 
had closed their churches for the time, and early 
closing of stores and postoffice made it easy for 
the young men to take the girls—and a large 
number of the young people had been drafted for 
a volunteer choir. 

Each night since the first of June the Great 
Evangelist had preached and prayed, and it was 
noticed that the mourners’ bench and the col¬ 
lection table were highly popular. The latter 
idea, borrowed from the Kirk in auld Scotland, 
and also from the southern negro, of letting 
the light shine full upon dollar and dime, was 
found highly effective. Each citizen and citi- 
zeness walked up the aisle and deposited upon 
the table, near Hawley, a contribution, while 
the band and orchestra played and the choir 
sang their loudest, just before the moving pic¬ 
tures. Hawley, and Hawley only, kept an eye 
and a hand on the collection table and knew the 
financial situation to a nickle (naturally no 
pennies were brought up to the table). 

At the Elmville bank each morning the Great 


When Elmville Backslid 


61 


Evangelist changed the silver and nickels into 
paper money and when the ones and twos got 
too bulky he would get larger notes. 

The weeks had gone on, however, and now it 
was noticed that in order to fill the mourners’ 
bench it was necessary to bring up some who 
had already been converted and wept over and 
“shaken by the hand” and comforted. The signs 
were that there would be a “call” for Hawley 
to go and preach elsewhere. So, after a few pre¬ 
liminary efforts, and the complete conversion 
of a tramp printer, who had happened into Elm¬ 
ville that day and mistook the town hall for a 
picture show, and the declaration on the part 
of Ah Sing, the laundrvman, that he was almost 
a “Chlistian” and would hereafter keep his front 
door closed on Sunday (and only deliver collars 
through the back door to those neglectfuls who 
might otherwise have a good excuse for not at¬ 
tending church), the revival came to a close. 

“It will be hard to get on without Brother 
Hawley,” said the Elmville milkman, the morn¬ 
ing after the last farewell meeting at the town 
hall. He was talking to Mrs. Perkins at the 
kitchen door, and into her large, shining, quart 
pitcher he poured a full pint of unwatered milk. 


62 


Gray Gull Feathers 


“Yes, that it will, Deacon;” she said. “I 
don’t know how we’ll get along. I feel so dif¬ 
ferent, since he came. That about the Golden 
Rule—It’s so beautiful!—and here is an extra 
ticket—for a pint of milk I got last fall—and 
forgot about.” 

The banker was glancing over the report of 
that last meeting, in the Times, when Lawyer 
Brown came in. 

“I’m going into the vegetable business,” said 
Brown to the banker, after the usual greetings. 
“Now, when you want anything in that line, let 
me know. I have put away my law books for¬ 
ever. Never again shall my voice be raised in 
defense of guilty men. My office will be fitted 
up to receive and sell beans, turnips, poultry, 
eggs and such. No doubt you are surprised; 
but I’m through with the Law, and I hope Elm- 
ville is also through with it.” 

The banker sighed. 

“Brown,” he said, finally, “I’m sure you are 
right. And what’s more I mean to do as you 
have done. It is to the soil that we should turn 
for bread and to the Almighty for comfort! As 
soon as I can arrange matters I mean to quit 
the banking business and go to farming. There 


When Elmville Backslid 


63 


I shall not be taxing anybody and will earn my 
subsistence by the ‘sweat of my brow’ as the 
Bible commands.” 

It was something like this all over town 
during the day. 

If the Times had been a daily instead of a 
weekly, with extras as easy as they come now¬ 
adays, the newsies would no doubt have soon been 
shouting about the shaded, quiet streets: 
“Uxtra! Uxtree! Extree!! Doctor Splints 
has tossed his knives into the well (literally) 
and advises his patients to heal themselves. He 
is also hiring out to market gardeners or dairy¬ 
men, by the day!” “Special Uxtree! Pastor 
Jones has confessed to the town clerk that his 
connection with the West End Church has always 
been for revenue only! He is returning to his 
former trade as a blacksmith and will take any 
work offered without kicking!” “Elkton, the 
shoe man, admits that in his business he has been 
pinching the people unduly, especially since the 
new tariff went into effect. Since his conversion 
he has decided to sell his entire stock at thirty 
per cent of marked prices. He also admits that 
it is an auction lot and that the styles are about 
six years old. Elkton declares that when his 


64 


Gray Gull Feathers 


shoes are disposed of he means to raise ducks 
and gather wild blackberries and chestnuts, in 
season!” 

One by one the announcements would have 
been made, showing a change of heart and a de¬ 
sire to “do unto others,” and not to “do others,” 
as had been the case, apparently. 

“In all Elinville” the Great Evangelist had 
said, on that last-farewell night, “there will be 
peace, and plenty, because every soul has been 
saved for itself and to everlasting joy! You will 
have no more need for doctors, or lawyers, or 
preachers, or bankers, merchants, tailors or po¬ 
licemen, when things have come to a final ad¬ 
justment. Everybody will be friendly with his 
neighbor and will give of his plenty to those who 
have not ; helping one another, and all because 
you have been purified and saved. There will be 
no more sickness or sorrow or contention!” 

“Amen!” cried the crowd that filled the town 
hall and the steps and the street for a block 
about, and was listening to each word uttered 
by the Great Evangelist and ready to acquiesce 
in anything he might say. 

And the very next day had found things stir¬ 
ring, as suggested. 


When Elmville Backslid 


65 


In every line of business, every trade and pro¬ 
fession and calling there seemed to be a desire 
to reform. 

Miss Mannikin’s sign, “Fashionable Milliner 
and Modiste,” which had stood for years in Elm¬ 
ville as a menace to the pocketbook of husbands 
and fathers, was covered during the forenoon 
with a large strip of light tan wrapping paper 
upon which was written, “Hats and Plain Sew¬ 
ing,” in five point, angular script. 

Hiram Beesley, sent to the grocer’s for ham, 
returned without it—and his mother was dum- 
founded (at first) by the report: 

“Mister Petersen sez as all his hams is not 
fitten ter eat—and he’z agoin’ ter send ’em back 
ter Brimley termorrer—and efter this iz agoin’ 
ter buy fust-class meetz—he sez.” 

Of course when Mrs. Beesley remembered 
about the Great Evangelist and the Golden Rule 
it was all right—and Hiram was dispatched to 
yard to catch a chicken for dinner. 

Old man Blick, up at the hardware store, had 
never really cared much for the telephone—but 
on that long remembered Monday he let two 
customers wait some time while he talked to 
Farmer Blivens, two miles out from Elmville. 


66 


Gray Gull Feathers 


The store end of the conversation was something 
like this: 

Blick: “Hello Blivens! Is that you? This 
is Blick, you know, the hardware man. Yes. 
No! No! I don’t want to make you neglect 
your work. Stop swearing, man! You are risk¬ 
ing your immortal soul! And besides, the telley- 
phone company don’t ’low it. Well—No! I 
haint gone crazy—nuthin’ of the sort; jest got 
religion—that’s all. No, en-deed—no! I beant 
tryin’ to convert you. That’s for better than me 
to try. What I wanted to tell you was about 
them nails you bought here last week. Yes, 
yes; you paid for ’em; sure. But I overcharged 
you about two-bits on a keg. Yes—don’t have 
a fit—That would be about $2, and you can 
drop in and get it when you come to town again.” 
(Noise suggesting that Blivens had fallen off 
the other end of the line, with some remarks in 
the prohibited list.) 

“Strawberries don’t look as good as usual, 
Mr. Cross,” said the greengrocer, looking over 
the baskets brought in that day. 

“Only difference,” said Cross “is that they 
are jest as they cum from the patch—no Deacon¬ 
ing. You’ll find ’em all right, even if they do 


When Elmville Backslid 


67 


look scattering. Y’see Parson Smither’s inter¬ 
pretating of Brother Hawley’s re-marks, tel’d 
me as how I oughtenter fix up my stuff a-tall, 
a-tall. Jest let it go as it grows.* * * * *They’ll 
be thirteen cents today; that’s about what they’re 
wutli, wholesale, I guess * * * * and you oughter 
sell ’em for fourteen, bein’ as how your rent’s 
low and the airly spring hez left yer a right 
smart of coal for the fall.” 

Elmville, a country town complete unto it¬ 
self, had a fertile outlying section, and while 
many of these farmers traded at the county 
seat and were seldom seen in the town, it was 
expected that one or two days in each week 
would find the racks filled with teams and busi¬ 
ness good. But since the departure of Brother 
Hawley things were changing in all manner of 
ways. At first the coming of strange teams and 
men from distant points in the country was the 
occasion of mild surprise, but they kept coming 
and all seemed to have heard about the cuts in 
prices and the long measure given in all of the 
Elmville stores. Jones, the grocer, Blick, the 
hardware man and Upson, the proprietor of the 
Elmville Emporium, had little time to discuss 


68 


Gray Gull Feathers 


politics or even to quote passages from the ser¬ 
mons of the Key. Parenthesis C. Hawley. 

“I’ll just be golswiggered—” said Upson to his 
wife, about a week after the departure of the 
Great Evangelist, “I’ll just be—!” 

“Ezra!” remonstrated his companion for life. 
“Be keerful! And let thy communications be 
yea, yea; and nay, nay!” 

“Well—I forgot—Maranthy—but I’m clean 
flabbergasted; that’s sure—and so are you. Why, 
since I begun to be ’zactly square with every¬ 
body and marked them goods all back to near 
cost, the customers is coming frum all over the 
Universe, I believe! How they found out about 
it beats me! All day long the store is full of 
people I never even heard of before—and they 
are getting my stock by the wagon-load. It’s 
cash trade—the outsiders—but the town folks 
is all creditin’ their stuff, and there’s not much 
money cornin’ in. I’d calkerlated to go to Brim- 
lev’s ’bout the fust of next month—but if this 
thing keeps up I’ll have to go sooner—or give 
an order to one of the drummer fellers, which 
I don’t like to do.” 

“Possibly you may, at some time in the near 
future, if not at present, desire to purchase some 


When Elmville Backslid 


69 


fowls?” said Trial Justice Weeks, calling at Mrs. 
Meyers’ back door. “I have opened a hennery 
at my place and will supply eggs and chickens 
at reasonable prices.” 

“But your business?” said Mrs. Meyer. “What 
of that?” 

“Well,” said Weeks, sadly; “of course I believe 
in upholding the dignity of the law, and all 
that, you know, but everything seems to be up¬ 
side down since the Great Evangelist was here. 
Why, just a few days ago that scamp, Wash. 
Jenkins, was caught robbing Mrs. Simpkins’ hen 
roost, and when he was brought before me, Mrs. 
Simpkins, (whom you may remember, ma’am, 
had a seat on the mourners’ bench, right up dost 
to Brother Hawley; and folks says didn’t even 
shut her eyes when he was prayin’) declared that 
she only admitted the Golden Rule, and the 
black rascal went off chuckling and grinning, 
just as though he hadn’t had one of her hens 
under his coat when caught.” 

The Rev. Smithers, at the Middle Street 
Church, preached a. strong sermon the following 
Sunday, before a very large and most attentive 
congregation—but the collection baskets came 
back nearly empty. No comment was made on 


70 


Gray Gull Feathers 


the subject of finance, however, though the pas¬ 
tor’s tone seemed a little regretful when giving 
out the closing hymn. 

“It aint so much our fault,” said Lawyer—(no 
—ex-lawyer) Brown, as he joined the preacher 
after service. “We just naturally haven’t any 
money—but I’m going to send you up a nice 
mess of beans from the very first that comes in 
tomorrow.” 

The preacher thanked him, and went on—but 
didn’t tell his wife, for there were already vege¬ 
tables enough for a boarding house on his pantry 
floor, and a pretty fair supply for two people 
growing in his own garden. 

What Brown had said for the people in church 
was true of the whole town apparently. Ac¬ 
counts were running at the grocer’s and the 
butcher’s and baker’s and while nobody was re¬ 
fused credit the dealers didn’t encourage trade. 

The postoffice was about the only place in Elm- 
ville that hadn’t been affected by the visit of the 
Great Evangelist. 

“Stamps don’t cost much to make, that’s true,” 
admitted Postmaster Wilkinson, when asked by 
a patron if he couldn’t let him have six for ten 
cents, on tick; “but the Government won’t let 


When Elmville Backslid 


71 


me sell them any cheaper than regular prices— 
and won’t trust anybody at all.” 

It was at the postoffice, however, that some¬ 
thing most important happened. 

“Wisht you’d see ef there’s ennythink from my 
boy, over ter Brimley,” said Josiah Jenkins one 
bright afternoon about a fortnight after Elm¬ 
ville had started to reform. 

“Right yew be,” said the postmaster briskly, 
fishing up an envelope from the general delivery. 
“Right yew be; and it seems like he’s writ you 
all about it—frum the size of the letter—ha! ha! 
—and mebby you’ll tell us how he’s gittin’ on 
—we’re all mighty proud of Eb, you know.” 

Jenkins had just sold his load of potatoes at 
the general store for a very small price—in trade 
—and it had taken all his forbearance to avoid 
arguing with the merchant who had given him 
an abundance of the verbal Golden Rule and a 
skimpy silver measure for his excellent pota¬ 
toes. Although living outside of Elmville he 
had visited the town several times to hear the 
Great Evangelist, and he was trying to be as 
“good” as anybody. This letter from Eb came 
in right well, at the time, however, for it sug¬ 
gested something. Maybe his son Eben, up at 


72 


Gray Gull Feathers 


the county seat, could arrange to dispose of the 
rest of the potatoes in Briinley, where evidently 
if they had less religion they had more money. 
He was working this over in his mind as he 
carefully dipt the end of the envelope and took 
out three or four neatly typewritten pages. He 
smoothed them out, adjusted his specs, and with 
some show of pride, began to read: 

“Dear dad:” (the letter began). “You-11 be 
glad to know that Fm all right and getting along 
fine. Mr. Bailey says he is pleased with my 
work and he’s dropped a hint that I’ll probably 
get a raise next month. Isn’t that fine! I cer¬ 
tainly like it up here, but of course I get home¬ 
sick sometimes for you all, and whenever I get 
a chance I’ll come over. Lots of love to mother 
and Susie and Little Jimsy and yourself. 

“Oh, yes. By the way; I’ve something to tell 
you about that man who was conducting a re¬ 
vival in Elmville sometime ago. You remember 
you spoke about him in a letter. Well, later he 
came over here and started a revival in the hall 
over the engine house. 

“Now last Tuesday there was a show in town. 
A sort of wild west business. You know what 
I mean, something like Buffalo Bill brought to 


When Elmville Backslid 


73 


Elmville three years ago? Well, the cowboys 
were knocking around town after their work 
was over that night and two of them stopped 
in at the revival. They thought it was a pic¬ 
ture show. Well, I was there, at your sugges¬ 
tion ; near the door, when the cowpunchers 
peeked in. 

“They took a look at the Evangelist and then 
at each other. 

“ ‘Parenthesis Charley, with his moustache 
shaved off/ said one of the men softly to the 
other. ‘If that aint him may I never ride an¬ 
other round-up!’ 

“‘Well I’ll de d-d!’ said the other; and 

before I could get another look at the pair they 
w r ere off. 

“The cowboys came back, however, in about 
a minute, and they had company. Two or three 
more men from their show, judging by the cos¬ 
tumes, and two of Brimley’s policemen. Nat¬ 
urally the party attracted attention, and, Dad, 
that Evangelist certainly looked scared. He 
hadn’t noticed the two men there first, but the 
uniforms and the bunch of show men caught his 
eye quick and he made a dash, white as a sheet, 
for the back door leading from the platform. 



74 


Gray Gull Feathers 


The choir had just sung a rousing hymn and 
Hawley was starting in to talk about the 
Golden Rule; but he broke for the door on a run 
and didn’t finish the sentence he had begun. 
The door opened as he approached and there 
was another big cowpuncher who grabbed him 
and held on ’til the policemen came up. 

“The Brimley chief turned to the crowd, which 
had stood up and was almost in a panic, and told 
everybody to take it quietly and advised the 
people to go home—somebody whispered ‘fire’— 
but Chief Braddock stopped that quick. 

“ ‘There isn’t any fire—and there won’t be no 
trouble,’ he said, ‘leastwise unless some of you 
make it, except for this here gent.’ 

“As the crowd still waited, one of the cowboys, 
who had taken hold of the Evangelist, made a 
little speech. 

“ ‘This here gent,’ he said, pointing to Haw¬ 
ley ‘is one of the nerviest flimflammers in the 
country, bar none. I regret to admit that for 
a time he was a member of the Two Hundred 
and Two Ranch Show, as barker and ticket 
seller, and his de-partyure wuz made between 
stations and wid a considerable roll of our 
money. That same was in Nevady, something 


When Elmville Backslid 


75 


over a year ago—but since then we’ve been on 
the lookout for him, expecting almost anything 
—but he fooled us. Never once suspected he 
would try the ree-ligus game. By the way, he 
is wanted in Oklahomy for cattle-stealing, and 
a re-ward is offered for his return to the sheriff 
of Blank county. We hopes as how you will ex¬ 
cuse us for interruptin’, but we need Mister 
Parenthesis Charley, and need him bad!’ 

“Some of us went to the jail that night and 
heard that Hawley had over three thousand 
dollars and two pistols in his pockets. He also 
had a bunch of letters that the officers said he 
had forged, recommending himself as an Evan¬ 
gelist. He was evidently planning an extended 
tour and thought himself well clear of former 
companions.” 

******* 

The postmaster had been the only listener 
when Jenkins began to read the letter from his 
son; but before it was over several others had 
drifted in. As the letter was finished and Farmer 
Jenkins slowly put it back into the envelope 
the silence in the postoffice was oppressive. 

“Well, isn’t that—” began the postmaster. 


76 


Gray Gull Feathers 


But nobody seemed inclined to follow up and 
complete the expression. 

Within an hour the story was all over town. 
A copy of the Brimley News, with the story in 
a little more detail, came later—and the doubt¬ 
ers were silenced before early candle light. 
******* 

Elmville woke up the next day as though 
from a Rip Van Winkle sleep. If one had lis¬ 
tened intently the creak of the milkman’s pump 
might have been heard as early as 4 a. m. 
Scarcely an hour later Dr. Splints was visible 
hitching up his buggy and making for the home 
of Widder Elkins, who had sent for him several 
days ago—and had been told that nothing could 
be done. Lawyer Brown was noticeable by his 
absence from the garden, at sunrise, for the ex¬ 
cellent reason that he had taken a night trip to 
Brimley to accept an offer made that morning 
by a man starting a lawsuit against a neighbor. 

Things were becoming normal again as the 
morning wore on, for it appeared that even the 
strawberries had heard the news, and the big 
ones had successfully reached their proper place 
at the top of the basket when inspection time 
came. The grocer, who hadn’t very much of a 


When Elmville Backslid 


77 


turn for letter-writing, was found carefully 
wording a letter countermanding a special order 
of No. 1 hams and shoulders and in the Empo¬ 
rium Proprietor Upson and his clerks spent the 
early hours cutting off special sale price tags and 
remarking bills that had been figured with a 
heavy discount. 

The sun shone brightly, the birds sang blithely 
and cheerily, and the people were moving about 
with more animation than had been noticeable 
for some weeks—and it was evident that each 
one was bent upon doing something that would 
better conditions, or bring about a good result; 
without a mean thought, each one was planning 
to get just a trifle the best of a bargain; to have 
Mary dress a little bit better than Mrs. Iverson 
—that was all. 

Very properly and naturally, Miss Mannikin, 
the little milliner, was the last to open her place 
of business—but she came out that pleasant and 
memorable morning, at about 8 o’clock, and re¬ 
moved the shutters that had hid a wealth of 
wonderful creations of feathers and fur and 
flounces. A few moments later she brought out 
a chair, and carefully removed the paper from 
the sign— 


78 


Gray Gull Feathers 


And Elmville, fully recovering its balance, 
could read once more that this was the place for 
all men and women to come when in search of the 

Fashionable Milliner and Modiste. 


TRAUMEREI 

(Andante -) 


Midsummer sunset, after a golden day, tem¬ 
pered by cooling winds from the Blue Ridge, not 
very far away. A stir in the air as the business 
folks are getting home and taking up the odd 
things that are to be done about. There’s some¬ 
thing akin to music in the plash of many min¬ 
iature fountains making glad the green lawns 
of which Salisbury is so proud. The homes 
clustered near the business section are vine-clad 
and pretty; their lines suggesting comfort, a 
quiet life, little change. 

On the wings of the breeze now can be heard 
coming from the little stone church strains 
of music. The windows are open and the 
slanting rays of the sun, coming through masses 
of ivy and mingling the colors of the glass, fall 
upon the snow-white hair of a man who sits on 
the organ bench and seems to be dreaming as 
he lightly touches the keys. He is playing 
Traumerei, that haunting theme of Schumann, 
known everywhere and understood by everyone. 
Dreaming, it means, and with appeal as uni- 



80 


Gray Gull Feathers 


versal. The old organist is not asleep—his eyes 
are open and very bright—but he is not heeding 
the music pages on the organ rack. The melody 
is well known to his fingers and his feet—begun, 
it plays itself. Any musician will tell you that. 

The organist seems looking far beyond the gray 
walls and their Gothic windows; the gorgeous 
tints of the sunset reflect in his eyes—or is that 
the spark of love and joy and hope that shows 
there; called up by a re-turned memory page? 
The wind has caught a long spray of ivy on the 
Gospel side window and is tapping rather loudly 
where it reads “Sacred to the Memory of Pierre 
Julian and Marie, His Wife,” but the organist 
heeds it not. The melody floats through the quiet 
church and out into the warm afterglow; it is 
harmony. All nature dreams and must recog¬ 
nize the theme. Delicate as the sigh of a child; 
imperious as the edict of a king; “Dreaming” we 
all go where we would and do and dare. 

Now the bells from the court house, down the 
street, announce six o’clock, and the organist, 
giving a signal to the blower that his work is 
over for the afternoon, turns to the pile of music 
nearby and selects some pages well-used and 
suggestive of an approaching event. He has just 


Traumerei 


81 


arranged the Mendelssohn wedding march and 
the Bridal Chorus from Wagner’s Lohengrin 
when the blower comes in from behind the organ. 
It should be explained that in some of the older 
churches the “wind” for the pipe organ is fur¬ 
nished by the exertions of a healthy human at 
the end of a bellows which somewhat resembles 
those used in the old-fashioned blacksmith shop. 
As long as the sexton—or his substitute—pumps, 
the organ can be played. If he should doze oft 
the music stops. 

Abraham Lincoln Jones, black, loose-join ted 
and not especially fond of work, is disposed to 
talk a little with the organist. Naturally liking 
music, Abe, as he is familiarly called, feels that 
he contributes a good share to the production in 
St. Jude’s—through his muscular exercises 
behind the organ. 

“Iz yo’ gwinter play dat trembly piece en¬ 
durin’ de ceremonies; Mister Robson?” he says, 
as the organist looks up. 

“You mean the last one I was playing?” asks 
the other, smiling. 

“Yassir; yassir; dat’s hit; wid de trembly 
notes way up yander and de rumblin’ wid yo’ 
foots.” 


82 


Gray Gull Feathers 


“Well, Abe. That’s Traumerei—it means 
dreaming, and when I play it for a wedding ser¬ 
vice it is supposed to suggest the sweet and happy 
dreams of a young couple just starting out to¬ 
gether—to make a home.” Ernest Robson sighed 
deeply as he stopped speaking. 

“Yo’ aint feelin’ bad; is yo’, Mister Robson?” 

“No, Abe. I’m all right. Feeling very well in¬ 
deed. But a wedding service is always rather sad 
for me. I’ll try not to let anyone know that I’m 
sad tomorrow, however. Great preparations, I 
hear, up at Judge Wilkins’s house. Eh, Abe?” 

“Dey jest nachully is; yessir. Yo’ know my 
ole ’ooman wuks at de Judge’s house an’ she 
’low’ as dey ent never seen no suh doin’s 
in all de days—not sence de wall. Huh! Huh! 
Seek a cookin’ and dress-makin’ and cleanin’ up 
fer comp’ny, and all de w’ile Miss Marj’ry car- 
ryin’ on like de ’cashun wuz undemented.” 

It was the organist’s turn to laugh at this 
big word, but he guessed what the darkey meant, 
and his genuine amusement was caught up by the 
sexton. 

“Huh! huh! huh! I specks I orter get down 
town now. Liza dun tole me fer bring sum t’ings 
frum de store.” Abe started away, and, re- 


Traumerei 


83 


membering more details of the wedding prepa¬ 
rations, stopped. “Huh! huh! I dun ’mem- 
bered what Miss Marj’ry said yisterd’y—when 
I wuz in, after Liza and onr dinner. She sez— 
‘Abe; yo’ ole raskill;’ (Huh! huh.) ‘Abe/ she 
lows rite like dat. ‘Ize so happy I cud hug de 
whole work, an’ I sez quick off—‘Miss Marj’ry, 
excoose me—pleze; coz my ole ooman is mighty 
pertickler an’ liabul ter git jellus.’ ” 

“And what did Miss Marjory say to that?” 
queried the organist, much amused. 

“She ’low’ as ’twus de fust time she hab been 
turn’ down een a long time—and den gone off 
laffin’, fit ter kill!” 

“Fit to kill!” repeated the organist, as the 
darkey passed out the side door, chuckling to 
himself. But Ernest Robson was not laughing, 
now. He sighed again, and leaning forward 
over and against the now voiceless keyboard; 
rested his snow-crowned head upon his arms. 
It was dusk and the air was becoming scented 
with the odor of moon-flowers. Those great 
white blooms that were opening wide on trellis 
and porch near by. The tide was at flood—far 
off at the seashore—the day at the turn, in this 


84 


Gray Gull Feathers 


lovely little Carolina city of peace and content¬ 
ment and homes. 

* IF * * * * * 

II 

Romance (Piu moto-pf) 

The pinch of poverty was everywhere in evi¬ 
dence in the poorly furnished room; yet love 
should he there. For a cradle in the corner 
certainly held a child. At the plain deal table 
near the centre a woman sat and alternately 
read—wept—and wrote. She was only a young 
wife; a young mother; and her eyes wandered 
from the letter she had recently taken from the 
postman to the message she penned; and then 
toward the door and the cradle. 

Myrtis Blandon had been counted among the 
handsomest of the girls in her home town in 
Florida. Fair, clear-skinned and lithe, she had 
led in her set for merriment and good nature. 
But a few years of privation had brought 
changes in her. Now her big gray eyes were 
red with weeping. Her mass of bright hair was 
tucked closely under a hat of two or three sea- 



Traitmerei 


85 


sons past. Her clothes were all of a kind that 
suggested passing plenty. 

As the baby stirred and cried the mother spoke 
some soothing word, and then—as though fear¬ 
ing that she was wasting precious time—she 
went and picked up the babe. 

“Yes; darling. Soon we will be going to 
grandpa, and maybe out troubles will be oyer.” 
The baby, understanding only her presence, slept 
again, and with a furtive glance at the door the 
woman returned to the table. A single page was 
written and tucked under the edge of the kero¬ 
sene lamp which furnished the light in the room. 
The shade was down at the only window, and 
raising it an instant could be seen the street 
lights and reflections from other buildings. 
Mrs. Ernest Robson stepped into the bedroom, 
adjoining, and returned at once with a hand- 
bag ; glanced inside and adding her handkerchief 
to its contents, took little Myrtis from the cradle, 
turned down the lamp and started for the door. 

Before the door was reached, however, the han¬ 
dle turned, A man with a violin case and bundle 
of music entered. 

In the dimly lighted room the man paused a 
moment to understand the situation. Then 


86 


Gray Gull Feathers 


quickly placing tlie violin and music on a cliair 
he came forward. 

“Myrtis!” lie said. “Not going out; at eight 
o’clock—and with little Myrtis—and the bag?” 

The woman, silent another instant, and then, 
through half checked sobs replies: “Yes.” 
Controlling her voice she speaks; gently, but 
firmly. “Ernest; I have had another letter from 
my father. He begs me to come home. He has 
found out where we are—and our poverty, and 
while not yet ready to forgive you; he wants 
me to come back. Me and the baby. I wouldn’t 
go—without you; except for Myrtis. But things 
seem so hopeless, and with the winter coming 
on and baby half sick—I—I thought it was best.” 

“But you were going without even saying good 
bye!” 

“I thought it would be easier, dear.” 

“And not even to kiss our darling?” 

“Ernest; I shall try so hard to gain father’s 
forgiveness and then he will help you—it surely 
is for the best, dear. Try to see it that way,” 
Myrtis is pleading. 

But the man has hardened and is bitter when 
thinking of the opposition of his father-in-law, 
before and after his marriage with Myrtis. He 


Traumerei 


87 


turns away as if to leave them—then falters and 
comes back. 

“Perhaps I could get some publisher to print 
my songs—even yet,” he urges, as though crav¬ 
ing any delay. “There is talk of a new picture 
house in Wimbleton and possibly I could get a 
place to play.” 

“It must be different ways, dear,” persisted the 
woman; “at least for awhile. Let baby and me 
go on—there’s a train for Tampa at nine. You 
can say we are on a visit—unless you want to 
go somewhere else to try for a better start—and 
even though father says I must not communicate 
with you, he will change—I’m sure.” 

“All right; dear,” says the man, after a silence 
that has seemed interminable. Upon his hand¬ 
some face passed the two mad, reckless years 
since he slipped away with Myrtis and they were 
married at the home of a country parson; Robson 
a romantic musician, with talent and ambition, 
but having had little opportunity and no real 
“luck”. He had brought his bride to Wimbleton, 
not because it was a flourishing place with much 
to offer. Rather because it seemed ideal for a 
honeymoon; and here they had loved and almost 
starved. Several times her father had written 


88 


Gray Gull Feathers 


and offered Myrtis a home—but never mentioned 
the man who had taken his girl away. 

“All right;” he repeats. “I know I am a 
flat failure. Talent does not count; nor hard 
work. Fm just a miserable failure and should 
be ashamed to stand between you and a home. 
***** Goodbye dear. God bless you—and 
keep you—always.” He turns as the woman goes 
slowly to the door, opens and closes it after her. 
In a manner that is pitiful in its attempt at 
gaiety he throws a kiss to little Myrtis. 

The door closed, Ernest Robson goes to the 
table—picks up the letter; but does not open it. 
His head goes down and while the lamp burns, 
dimly, he bows to the inevitable. 

******* 

III 

Reverie (Tempo primo-ppp) 

Twilight has given place to moonlight among 
the hills and vales of the Old North State. In 
Salisbury the harvest moon is shining full upon 
the stone church, and, directly through the chan¬ 
cel window, falls upon a picture of peace and 
solitude. Through the aisles the scattered moon- 



Traumerei 


89 


beams play and climb, and reaching clear to the 
open door they find and welcome a vision fair. 
Standing at the church door is a maiden all in 
white, and yet the glow of her cheeks and the 
gold of her hair and the blue of her eyes are all 
so exquisitely blended as to make her seem un¬ 
real. A summer afternoon hat, dangling from 
ribbons on her round, white arm, suggests that 
her wanderings were begun before the nightfall. 
But she is not afraid of the dark—nor is there 
anything she fears. Not even an empty church 
with all that it could suggest. She pauses for 
a moment at the door, and then slips quietly 
in, not irreverently, but as though impressed 
with the beauty of the scene—for moonlight 
transforms angles and silvers every curve. 

Impelled by some unknown influence, the girl 
moves toward the chancel and is half way up 
the main aisle before she discovers the organist, 
who has stirred and turned—scarce realizing 
that he has dreamed over again the scene of years 
gone by. 

But Ernest Robson is now looking and wonder¬ 
ing—the girl moves forward; but the years turn 
back; yes, it must be: there was but one such 
face and figure ***** 


90 


Gray Gull Feathers 


“Myrtis,” lie calls. “Myrtis—my darling!” 

The girl pauses; startled—but not afraid. 

The old organist is fully awake now. He rises 
and extends a hand. “Forgive me/’ he pleads, 
“and come nearer.” 

Hesitating, then confident, the girl approaches 
and extends a hand. The moonlight is so broad 
that the study of the two—youth and age—is 
plain as ever the daylight could afford. They 
are looking at each other and he explains that 
he had dozed off—after a warm afternoon of re¬ 
hearsals, and had been living in memory the days 
gone by. 

“But you called me Myrtis,” said the girl. 
“That is my name. I’m here from Tampa, to be 
at Marjorie’s wedding. Marjorie was my room¬ 
mate at Rollins. And I was running away for 
a little walk about and thought I would look in 
at the church. Maybe I’d better go now; they 
may be wondering where I am.” 

“Just a minute, dear,” said the organist. His 
face had once more assumed a far-away look. 
It seemed almost as though a hand was reaching 
out to him from the past. “You say your name 
is Myrtis?” 

“Yes, sir,” wonderingly. 


Traumerei 


91 


“And yon are just eighteen and your mother 
—is she— 

“Yes, sir; mother’s well and we live in Tampa 
—but why do you ask me these things—and why 
do you look at me so?” The girl is agitated, yet 
does not seek to release the hand which has 
been held. 

“Myrtis—cannot you guess? Has your mother 
never told you of the father you have never 
seen?” 

“Yes; yes. Often we talk of him—and have 
tried for so many years to find out about him 
—but never could.” 

“And now, Myrtis; can’t you guess—don’t you 
know—” 

More beautiful even than the moonlight is 
the awakening light on her face as Myrtis, fold¬ 
ing herself into the arms of the old organist, 
cries simply: 

“Daddy!” 

******* 

And Abe, coming in to light up for evening 
service and discovering the two in close embrace, 
coughs interestedly. 

“Abe,” says the organist, as he starts down the 


92 


Gray Gull Feathers 


aisle, towards the door, “I have found my own.” 
And in reverent tones the negro replies: 
“Bress de good Lawd! Bress de Lawd!” 


TRAILING ARBUTUS 


Harvey Wideman, department clerk at Wash¬ 
ington, off on a two weeks’ leave of absence, was 
sitting in a Pullman car, idly turning the pages 
of Munsey’s, when, noting the slowing-down of 
the train, he gave attention to the call of the 
trainman. “Branchville!” shouted the man. 
“Change cars for Augusta! Twenty minutes 
for dinner!” He had already dined and knew 
that the car would go through, but curiosity 
impelled him to get out and look over the place. 
From his gray coat pocket he brought a briar, 
and with its comforting clouds counteracting the 
smell of oil and grease and miscellaneous freight 
that is always on a country depot platform, he 
made a trip about. There wasn’t much to see 
and, the smoke finished, he was turning back, 
when the noise of an approaching train made 
him hesitate. It was the regular express from 
Charleston, and in a minute the platform was 
animated with moving trucks and passengers 
changing for Columbia and Augusta. 

Harvey stood near the Olympia, which had 
brought him so far on his Southern trip, and 


94 


Gray Gull Feathers 


found it a duty and a pleasure to respond to tlie 
inquiry of a young lady who wished to know of 
the car for Aiken. Never diffident or shy, Har¬ 
vey offered a hand as she mounted the steps— 
for the conductor had been lured into the restau¬ 
rant by a huge negro ringing a huge dinner bell. 
He received just a tiny smile and a soft mur¬ 
mured “Thank you” for his pains. 

Ten minutes later the train for Augusta picked 
up the Olympia and was off to the westward. 
Harvey, returning to his seat, scanned the car 
for new arrivals and noted the old lady whose 
glasses fell at regular intervals as she dozed; 
the couple with the tiny baby that demanded 
minute attention; the other couple that had for¬ 
gotten the world, and held hands just as though 
the train might be everlastingly running through 
tunnels—instead of rushing through miles and 
miles of pine forests, unbroken save for an oc¬ 
casional muddy stream or a sandy road that 
seemed to come from nowhere and to be intent 
on getting back by a circuitous route. Of course 
there were some golf-bag-encumbered tourists 
and a few drummers—but the Washington de¬ 
partment clerk was searching for a new passen¬ 
ger and, when found, let his gaze rest there. 


Trailing Arbutus 


95 


At a slight angle, as she was seated across the 
aisle, two sections ahead, he had the opportunity 
and privilege to study her, without apparent im¬ 
pertinence, and the subject seemed to grow more 
interesting at each point. She was tall and 
slender, with just a suggestion of pallor in her 
cheeks; her eyes, like two big patches of smut, 
appeared under dark pencilled eyebrows and 
soft, black hair. Harvey estimated her age at 
nineteen, her parentage Southern with maybe 
foreign ancestors, probably French, and her po¬ 
sition and intentions that of a Charleston girl 
on her way to visit relatives. Her costume sug¬ 
gested mourning, although not necessarily recent 
bereavement, and here the inspection ceased— 
for the young lady was struggling with a window, 
and it was a chance to get acquainted, perhaps. 

“Please let me help you,” he said, arriving at 
her section as she was about to resign herself 
to existing conditions. Outside the spring sun¬ 
shine and the woods were interesting, and the 
car, with steam on since leaving Washington, 
was very close. 

Again there was that gentle “Thank you,” and 
the black eyes dropped to a book in her lap. 

Taking as long as he possibly could, Harvey, 


96 


Gray Gull Feathers 


now very near, followed up his study, but added 
little to the first picture. He ventured a re¬ 
mark about the weather, and as the long lashes 
lifted, tried to read the depths of the eyes below 
but there was only a smile of assent, which prac¬ 
tically bade him go back to his seat. 

Pretending to read, Harvey tried to explain 
away an illusion. Something was calling into 
his ear, loud and long, and the cry was, “Just 
you two!” “Nonsense,” he said to himself: “we 
two, indeed! I’ll never see her again, nor think 
of her. Guess this would be a good time to write 
to Allene—wonder if she’s grown any since I 
saw her three years ago? I’ll have to send a 
note from the hotel before I go out to the Sibleys’ 
—they’ll be surprised, sure enough, to see me, 
although I told them I might drop in any time.” 
A pad from his suitcase is brought out and then 
returned. 

No use trying to deceive himself. Harvey was 
not in the mood for writing, and with the mag¬ 
azine again in his hand, he let his eyes wander 
up the aisle and across to the slender, graceful 
girl, and his thoughts went building castles, 
with slim princesses presiding. “Just you two!” 


Trailing Arbutus 


97 


kept buzzing through the pictures and refused to 
be silenced. 

More pines and more roads and some little vil¬ 
lages were passing outside, and the train sped 
on as the dusk closed down. The lights were on 
when the train reached the famous little winter 
resort, Aiken. Harvey was off with the first 
and, standing near the step, managed to get his 
hand above the conductor’s and rejoiced when a 
little gloved paw rested in his a second as the 
owner descended. 

“Can I call a cab for you, or see if there’s some¬ 
one to meet you?” asked Harvey, regardless of 
the fact that his train would linger but a minute. 

“Thank you,” she said, “but I will manage 
that,” and the smile showed faintly once more. 

“And mayn’t I know who you are?” Harvey 
continued—with all his best powers in the plea, 
“and won’t you let me introduce myself?” offer¬ 
ing a card. 

“Not now,” she said, taking his card, however, 

and turning away as the train began to move. 
******* 

“Easy now, mister,” a voice near Harvey cau¬ 
tions as he tries to put his hand to his head. His 
eyes open wonderingly, for the arm that he had 


98 


Gray Gull Feathers 


tried to raise is stiff and hurts abominably. What 
is the meaning of it all? Is he not on the train, 
bound for Augusta? and what can be the matter 
with his head? Somebody, with a woman’s 
touch, is placing something cooling on his fore¬ 
head and again a man’s voice is heard: 

“Guess he’s coming ’round all right, Hulda; 
but we’ll hafter be keerful of ’im fer a day er 
two maybe. I’ll try ter git ter town termorrer 
and fetch a doctor—” and here Harvey lost the 
thread and only felt a sense of rest, and the pain 
seemed easing. 

And then, in the morning, for it was but a 
short twelve hours since he had said adieu to 
the unknown at Aiken, Harvey Wideman, sore 
and bruised, heard that he had fallen from the 
observation platform of the New York special 
when nearing the water tank, three miles west 
of the station. Aiken, as many well know, is 
several hundred feet higher than Augusta, and 
the grade on the Southern is especially heavy 
when nearing the town. A few miles below there 
for a distance of half a mile or more the 
road runs on an embankment a hundred feet 
high, and quite near this is the water tank. As 
his head cleared Harvey remembered going out 


Trailing Arbutus 


99 


on the platform as the train left Aiken. Fill¬ 
ing his pipe, he was watching the lights of the 
town and wondering why he could not put that 
pretty stranger out of his mind. 

The first part of the way was through a deep 
cut, with bridges overhead, and then the train 
seemed to leap into air and was thundering 
along, higher than the swaying pines that he 
could see in the bright starlight. The sight 
made him a little dizzy, and he turned to go in, 
when the car gave a lurch. 

“I saw ye fall,” said Johnson, the pump tender, 
“and went out ter where ye was right away. 
’Twarn’t no use to try an- stop that train, and 
nothin’ else passed since that would have helped 
ye—and so here yer is.” 

The kindly services of Johnson and his wife 
had been sufficient; for the soft earth that com¬ 
posed the embankment had caught Harvey and, 
although stunning him, allowed no broken bones 
and delivered him, after mild treatment, almost 
as well as ever. 

“Queer thing about this tumble,” said Harvey 
to himself. “Does it mean that I should change 
my plans?” and much to the surprise of the 



100 


Gray Gull Feathers 


pump tender, his involuntary visitor proposed 
that he he allowed to stay in the little house in 
the woods for a week or more. 

“I was bound for Augusta,” the young man 
said, “but was not especially needed there. My 
baggage will be held and my loss off the train 
may be looked into. I’ll just disappear for a few 
days. I can pay you for your trouble, and you 

can get some things for me when you go to town.” 
******* 

Johnson made some rather unusual purchases 
when in Aiken a couple of days later. Harvey 
had written what he desired and had given him 
the money, and the storekeepers were moved to 
remark, “gittin* ter be a dude in yer old age, eh, 
Johnson?” which passed as a joke for the crowd. 

In the meantime Harvey was getting real en¬ 
joyment out of long tramps through the pines. 
Johnson had brought an Augusta paper home 
which told of the disappearance of a passenger, 
whose baggage, marked H. W., was held by the 
railroad company. The Washington folks would 
not expect to hear from him right away, and the 
friends in Augusta were not expecting him. 
Each day he ranged nearer to Aiken—yet he 
forced himself to keep out of the town itself. 


Trailing Arbutus 


101 


He hated to go away without seeing the un¬ 
known, and yet feared that his presence in Aiken 
might be misconstrued. 

But the time was passing, and the sixth day 
after his unceremonious arrival at the pump 
station Harvey decided that this would be his 
farewell to the Aiken woods. Starting out early, 
he walked for miles, leaving the town a little 
to the east, and passing to a range of low hills, 
he made himself comfortable for a smoke, re¬ 
clining upon the pine straw that carpeted the 
ground under the trees. Johnson’s dog, Patch, 
had taken a fancy to him upon his arrival and 
accompanied the lost man each day. He was 
watching the yellow and white friend as he 
smoked, thinking how easy it had been to estab¬ 
lish an understanding with the four-footer, and 
how hard to get acquainted with other kinds of 
living things. 

Patch, dog fashion, never satisfied with going 
the distance, was making expeditions far and 
wide, and in the midst of Harvey’s day dreams 
once more there was an interruption—it was 
Patch barking wildly. 

Looking about for the cause, Harvey saw two 
figures approaching, stooping occasionally to 


102 


Gray Gull Feathers 


gather the little pink and white blossoms that 
grew under the ledges of loose rock and around 
the roots of trees. Trailing arbutus, dainty and 
fragrant, was there for those who would search 
and find. Nearer, they came now, and Harvey, 
stilling the dog’s protests, met the eyes of the 
unknown. 

A moment of restraint, and then merry laugh¬ 
ter, begun by the girl, taken up by Harvey; al¬ 
though the child seemed rather puzzled. 

“Glad to see you, Mr. Wideman,” she said, 
extending her hand. Then to the child: “This 
is a friend I knew before I came to your house, 
Inez.” Again addressing Harvey; she told of 
her surprise in finding him on the arbutus hills. 

“That your dog?” asked Inez of Harvey. “And 
mayn’t we have a run?” turning to the unknown. 

Harvey sees her hesitate, and adds his best 
argument. In a moment the child and the collie 
are slipping, sliding down the pine needle-cov¬ 
ered hill, and the two, silent and grave, stand 
together, looking, not at each other, but appar¬ 
ently through and beyond. 

“You will tell me who you are, now?” he said, 
“and let me come to Aiken to see you?” 

“No,” she said. “Not yet—some time, maybe. 


Trailing Arbutus 


103 


How is it that you are here? I saw you board the 
train that night—and you are not at the Park 
in the Pines. They always print the list. ?? 

This was an admission of interest and all that 
was needed to start Harvey on his story. They 
were sitting on the pine straw, under a great 
tree, but she rose and turned away when he told 
her why he had not been to Aiken. 

"I shall go on tomorrow,” he said, “and be in 
Washington within ten days, and then work and 
forgetfulness. I had thought that I was storm¬ 
proof, through many experiences, and now I am 
absolutely morbid because I have seen a pair 
of midnight eyes that haunt me.” 

The pale cheeks flush under this and, calling 
for Inez to return, the girl offers her hand, say¬ 
ing: 

“I’m surely sorry if I have given you any cause 
to worry, and I wish you wouldn’t. I don’t want 
to tell you who I am, or anything about myself 
—although of course you could find out, if you 
were mean enough to do it. Possibly we may 
meet again—I really hope so, in a conventional 
manner; and then, perhaps, you will like me bet¬ 
ter for having been a little backward in meeting 
your rather unwarranted advances.” 


104 


Gray Gull Feathers 


There was nothing hard or unpleasant in the 
way this was delivered, and Harvey cudgelled 
his wits for an apt reply. 

Inez coming up, flushed and happy after her 
run, saw the man and her companion again touch 
hands, and part. She was not quick enough, 
however, to notice that the small hand held a 
spray of arbutus at first, and that it disappeared 
when the hand was released. 

******* 

It was later in the season, two years after¬ 
wards, that Harvey Wideman applied for leave 
of absence. Friends having a beautiful cottage 
on the Jersey shore had invited him to spend a 
week or ten days with them, and the remainder 
of the time would be taken up with doing the 
theatres in New York. Things had gone fairly 
well with him, lately, in some ways. A promo¬ 
tion and a raise of salary, good health, and many 
good friends had given him no cause for general 
complaint. But he still remembered the tumble 
from the train near Aiken, and the beautiful 
girl who would not tell him anything but “wait.” 

Now at the shore he spent the days and nights 
just as the regular Jerseyites spent them, and 


Trailing Arbutus 


105 


rejoiced in the fullness of health and the spirit 
of recreation. 

The day before he was leaving was Sunday, 
and with Mr. and Mrs. Benson and their little 
girl, Harvey was booked for an automobile ride 
out the Reinsen road, then along Ocean avenue, 
to Sea Girt. All went well, and the day was 
passing delightfully when, in the early afternoon, 
they stopped at the bandstand at Asbury Park 
and, with a multitude, sat silent and apprecia¬ 
tive under the spell of Arthor Pryor’s art. The 
famous bandmaster was playing that exquisite 
ballad, “O, Dry Those Tears,” as a trombone 
solo. 

Harvey, always fond of music, was lost in the 
melody and scarcely noticed that a big red car 
had come up alongside until the land breeze 
brought him a sweet odor. Puzzling, then in an 
instant recalling the fragrance of the trailing 
arbutus, he glanced across, and in a second was 
nodding to—“the unknown.” 

“How do you do!” called Mrs. Brunson to the 
people in the red car, as the applause following 
the solo subsided and Pryor led his famous mu¬ 
sicians off into a lively two-step. “When did 
you come to the shore, Mrs. Williams?” 


106 


Gray Gull Feathers 


The cars are close together, but Mr. Benson 
is getting out and Harvey follows to be intro¬ 
duced to Mrs. Williams and “her cousin, Miss 
Cecile Simons, from Charleston.” 

“We were going to the Coleman House for din¬ 
ner/’ says Mr. Benson “and would be delighted 
to have you go with us—just informal, you know. 
Mr. Wideman goes South tomorrow.” 

And then, as all informal things are rather 
nice, except that they are sometimes inconven¬ 
ient, the dinner party was greatly enjoyed. 

“Where did you get that arbutus perfume?” 
asked Harvey, as they sat on the Coleman House 
piazza two hours later, having already found out 
that Cecile was also going South on the morrow. 

“Do you like it?” 

“Like it? Why, I adore it—it means you, you 
know!” 




















































JUL 2 6 1924 



J 


LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




□0023082135 














































